


the tallest man, the broadest shoulders

by Gruoch



Series: the great frontier [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Gen, Recreational Drug Use, canon grab bag, iconoclasm, identity crisis, idolatry, our lord & savior Tony Stark, performance anxiety, planting seeds in a hundred ft long shadow, post-Blip world, socially awkward overachieving STEM students
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-13 15:44:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21161303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gruoch/pseuds/Gruoch
Summary: Peter spends the night before he heads off to college lying face down on the bathroom floor at Tony’s penthouse, trying not to hurl all over the pristine tile while Tony digs bullet fragments out of his flank with a pair of long tweezers.It is not, he thinks, a particularly auspicious start to his collegiate career.





	the tallest man, the broadest shoulders

**Author's Note:**

> I'm calling this one "my dark academia kinda sorta AU Far From Home fic." It's canon compliant up through the last twenty or so minutes of Endgame, and then it goes completely off the rails. I'm also screwing with the post-Endgame timeline because I'm not going to make poor Peter repeat his junior year of high school on top of the indignity of being dead for five years. We'll just say he blipped back and did his senior year, and this story is set a year-ish after the events of Endgame.

Peter spends the night before he heads off to college lying face down on the bathroom floor at Tony’s penthouse, trying not to hurl all over the pristine tile while Tony digs bullet fragments out of his flank with a pair of long tweezers.

It is not, he thinks, a particularly auspicious start to his collegiate career.

“Ease up there, pal,” Tony says, squinting through his reading glasses as he plucks out another shard. “That tile comes all the way from Italy.”

“Sorry,” Peter mutters through clenched teeth, unsticking his fingers from the tile and folding his arms under his chest. “Just—can you be a little more gentle? It feels a little like you’re punishing me right now.”

“I would never,” Tony says. “I just don’t know why you won’t wear the Iron Spider suit that I poured vast amounts of time and money into engineering so that I wouldn’t have to pick bullets out of you while you whine and tear up my nice Italian tile.”

“It doesn’t vibe as well with my whole friendly neighborhood Spider-Man thing,” Peter explains, gagging as Tony digs the tweezers in again. “The cops are already insanely militarized and scary. I want people to feel like Spider-Man is approachable, you know?”

“Mm,” Tony hums, unconvinced, before prodding at Peter’s injured side with his fingers. “Does it hurt when I do that?”

“Ow—yes,” Peter wheezes, blinking back tears. “What does that mean? Is that bad?”

“I have no idea,” Tony says as he strips off the nitrile gloves he’s wearing. “I’ve only had some very basic training in field medicine. I’m really not qualified to be doing most of the home surgery I perform on you.”

Peter musters up the strength to lift his cheek off of the tile, glaring at him. “So _why_ did you do that, then, if not to punish me?”

“Morbid curiosity,” Tony says, tossing the gloves into the waste bin by the toilet. “Do you want more painkillers?”

“No, thank you.” Peter slowly presses himself up on his forearms, moving like his body is made of glass. “That stuff is so strong. I don’t wanna be like a drugged-out zombie when I meet the other people on my hall for the first time. First impressions are important.”

“They are, which is why you shouldn’t introduce yourself to people with a bleeding hole in your body,” Tony says flatly. “You’re not seriously planning on moving in tomorrow, are you? Why don’t you wait a couple of days and let that heal up—you’re not missing anything.”

“Nah, I’ll be fine,” Peter insists, slowly sitting up and swallowing down another wave of nausea.

Tony sighs heavily. “Alright, well, let the record show I tried talking sense into you. You’re a legal adult now. I have no power here.” 

He goes quiet for a long moment, just looking at Peter. He does that a lot now, and Peter isn’t sure what he’s seeing.

“What?” Peter asks finally, when the weight becomes too much. 

“Nothing,” Tony says, a smile starting to twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Just—look at you, kid. Off to MIT. You excited?”

“Yeah.”

“Nervous?”

“Not really. I feel ready to go,” Peter lies, before promptly vomiting all over himself, which in hindsight he’ll realize sets the tone for much of his first semester at MIT.

**

He winds up moving into his residence hall three days late, still sluggishly bleeding as he carries his meager belongings up the stairs with May’s help.

He has a single room at the far end of the hall. May had tried to talk him into a double with a roommate, worried that he'd get lonely, but he insisted a single would make his life easier, and Ned’s on the floor below, anyway. He’s packed a couple of his Spider-Man suits into a plain cardboard box, burying them under some sweaters. He tucks the box under his bed, out of sight for now but never out of mind.

It doesn’t take them long to finish. May insists on putting the sheets on his bed before she leaves, even though she hasn’t made up his bed at home in years—one last act of maternal service. Then she hugs him, squeezing him tight around the neck.

“I’m so proud of you, honey,” she says, peppering the side of his face with kisses. “Ben would be proud of you, too.”

“May...” Peter protests weakly, feeling a tightness in his throat that has nothing to do with the stranglehold she has him in.

“Okay, okay. I know,” she says, releasing him. She smiles, squeezing his shoulders. “Now, I want you to promise me—you’ll put yourself out there, okay? Don’t hole up in your room. Go introduce yourself to people. Try new things, even if it seems hard or scary—it’s good to challenge yourself. And don’t forget to _have fun._”

“I promise to do all of that,” Peter says, giving her a reassuring smile.

“Thank you,” May says, hugging him again. “Love you so much, baby. Don’t forget to call me, alright? I miss you already.”

Ned comes up after May leaves, bringing a coterie of his fellow Comp Sci majors and a few hall residents that he’s already met with him. Peter feels slightly awkward talking to them, very aware that he’s the newest newcomer in the group. His next-door neighbor, a fellow freshman named Rahul, pops in to introduce himself, and then it’s a little easier.

They all go to dinner together. There’s a mural painted on one of the dining hall’s walls behind the salad bar—Tony Stark in the Iron Man armor, helmetless and with a far-off gaze, looking into some unseen future. A constellation of planets and stars hangs around his head, like he’s the center of the universe he saved.

Peter takes a picture of it and sends it to Tony.

Tony replies a beat later with a picture of a dog under text that reads, _much noble, so hero._

_You resurrected half the universe and now you’re resurrecting long dead memes. Wow ur power,_ Peter types back.

_What can I say,_ Tony texts. _I am truly a hero for the ages._

**

Peter’s first week at MIT goes something like this:

He honors the promise he made to May by introducing himself to the assortment of fellow awkward, baby-faced freshmen that live on his hall, as well as a handful of sophomores and upperclassmen. When asked if he got Blipped, he says yes but lies about the circumstances, telling a boring story that everyone will forget within a day. It’s made even more forgettable by Rahul’s story, who had the misfortune of being Blipped while on the toilet at school, and then reappeared ass out only to discover that the bathroom had been torn down in the intervening five years and replaced by a new classroom now full of very shocked students.

Peter is fifteen minutes late to his first chemistry lab, arriving right as his professor is handing out lab partner assignments for the semester. Peter’s partner, a tall, prim girl named Gwen, sizes him up with a look and seems to immediately foresee that his lateness is going to be a chronic problem. She doesn’t attempt to hide her disappointment as they exchange murmured shallow pleasantries and contact information.

He’s fifteen minutes late to his Western Civ survey. The class is in a large, packed lecture hall, and the handful of open seats that are left are all grouped loosely in the very center of the auditorium. It turns Peter’s tardiness into a kind of awkward walk of shame as he shuffles clumsily past his classmates to an empty seat, muttering apologies under his breath as he trips over backpacks and bumps into chairs.

He slips into an empty chair and sinks down as low as he can into it, taking out his laptop and opening it, ducking behind the screen.

Something pokes him in the side. He glances to his left. The dark-haired boy seated next to him is leaning towards him. The boy smiles when he has Peter’s attention, leaning in even closer.

“Hey, man,” he says in a low voice. “Can I borrow a pen?”

Peter digs through his backpack and finds a pen, offering it up.

“Thanks,” the boy says as he takes it. He points the end towards the Mets t-shirt Peter’s wearing. “Fuck the Mets.”

“I’m from Queens,” Peter explains lamely, like this somehow absolves his shitty taste in baseball teams.

The boy nods. “Nice. A fellow New Yorker. The Mets still suck ass.”

“Okay,” Peter mutters, hunching further over his laptop while their professor continues to drone on in minute detail about the syllabus.

Something pokes him in the side again. The dark-haired boy is leaning in close once more, whispering.

“Hey. You a freshman? Where are you living?”

“Uh. Yeah. Maseeh.”

“I’m in Random. It’s full of math nerds. You like math?”

Peter shrugs, frowning at his laptop’s screen. “I have no strong feelings either way about it. It’s fine, I guess.”

“I bet you’re good at math,” the boy says, shifting even closer so that his knee bumps against Peter’s.

Peter glances over at him. “This is MIT. I’m pretty sure everyone is good at math here.”

“Not me, bro. I fucking hate math. Math, and the Mets,” the boy says, poking Peter in the side again with the pen before settling back in his chair. He pulls the cap off the pen with his teeth and starts scribbling in his notebook.

“Okay,” Peter says again, at a loss for anything else. “Whatever, dude. Like what you like.”

The boy looks up and grins wolfishly at him, the pen cap still gripped between the two rows of his straight, white teeth.

**

What the boy likes, apparently, is Peter, because outside of sleeping and showering and class, he has become a near-constant presence in Peter’s life, appointing himself like a kind of guide to MIT’s underworld, if such a thing exists.

“I’m supposed to be a second-semester sophomore, but there was this whole thing where I got arrested for drug possession at the end of my freshman year and I had to finish like a million hours of community service before I could come back to school,” the boy tells Peter as they walk to class together. 

The boy has told Peter a lot of things over the past two weeks since they met—which dining halls have the best food, which clubs Peter should join, which professors he should avoid and which he should definitely take, who to go to for the best study drugs (him), and who to go to for the best party drugs (also him). 

He’s told Peter a great deal about growing up in Manhattan, but the New York City of his childhood is vastly, vastly different from the New York City of Peter’s childhood, as if they grew up on different planets that just happened to share the same name, and everyone on the boy’s planet had things like chauffeurs and summer houses in the Hamptons and gorgeous young nannies that get caught in cheating scandals with their employers’ husbands. 

The guy’s name is Harry Osborn, and it takes Peter an embarrassingly long amount of time to make the connection between Osborn and Oscorp, and when he does it feels a little like the universe is playing some kind of joke on him. Stumbling into a friendship with the offspring of exorbitantly wealthy, powerful industrialists—and this one in particular—seems like more of a Harvard or Yale thing. 

“Yeah, my dad was dead-set on Princeton, actually,” Harry explains when Peter says as much. “That’s his alma mater. MIT is like my little fuck you to him. I didn’t even tell him applied until I got the acceptance letter. Wanted to get in on my own merit, not daddy’s doing, you know? And he _still_ managed to be disappointed. It’s like his default setting with me.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter offers.

Harry shrugs. “It’s cool. What about you?”

“Me? I’ve never been arrested for drug possession. I did get detention once in the sixth grade for pantsing my best friend in gym class, but it was totally, one-hundred-percent an innocent accident.”

“You’re a shit, Parker,” Harry says with a smile, walking backwards in front of Peter so they can talk face-to-face. “I mean—what’s your deal? I’ve given you like my entire tragic villain backstory. I want yours now. I feel like I don’t know anything about you, aside from your trash taste in sports teams. What’s your major, how’d you get here, yada yada.”

“Uh. I don’t really have a story,” Peter says. “I came here because I think I want to major in either chemical or biomedical engineering, and my boss wrote me a really nice recommendation letter. He’s a big deal alumnus, so I guess it was kinda a guaranteed thing I’d get in. So. Yeah. That’s all.”

“Fascinating stuff, Parker. Truly riveting,” Harry deadpans. “Who’s your boss?”

Peter hesitates a moment before answering. “Tony Stark.”

Harry trips over his own feet. “No way. You’re joking.”

“No, I really interned for him,” Peter says. He digs his phone out of his pocket and finds a picture of him and Tony together. “Here—photographic proof.”

“No. Fucking. Way,” Harry says as he peers wide-eyed at the picture on the screen, looking genuinely impressed now. “Iron Man. Holy shit, dude. _Iron Man._ I’m like, losing my mind right now. I mean—'big deal alumnus,’ what the _fuck,_ Parker? What a way to undersell. You gotta—what was that even _like?_”

“Uh, it’s like…have you ever gone to work for someone that you hero-worshipped since the time you were a little kid, someone that you thought was like, the _coolest_ person on the planet?” Peter asks. “And then you spend a lot of time with that person, and you realize he’s actually more like your weird old uncle who smokes pot in his garage all day and tells corny dad jokes? ‘Cause that’s what working for Tony Stark is like.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Peter confirms. “The whole ultra-suave, enigmatic billionaire tech genius thing is a front he puts on for the public. I’ve seen him blow his nose into his t-shirt while he was still wearing it. He wears these gross old gym shorts around the house that show off waaaay more thigh than is socially acceptable for a man in his fifties. Or anyone, really. It makes me die a little every time I see him in them.”

“Oh my god, this is wild,” Harry says, delighted. “Everyone here treats him like he’s a god or something—and that was _before_ the whole saving the universe thing. He’s like—like _untouchable_ now. There’s a mural of him on one of the walls in the basement of my residence hall, looking like a badass cosmic Jesus. I’m gonna think about him in nut huggers every time I go down to use the printer now. Wow. This has been _very_ enlightening. Thank you.”

Peter shrugs. “Sure. Glad you appreciate it. Most people act like I’ve broken some kind of taboo or blasphemed or something when I tell them stuff like that.”

“Are you kidding? I think I worship him even more now,” Harry says. “I mean, it’s a question of whether you’d rather your idols be like gods or something semi-attainable, you know?”

“Yeah, for sure,” Peter agrees. 

Harry hops over a curb and comes to a stop, his expression going thoughtful. “Hey—you oughta try getting into Dr. Connors’ special topics class with me this semester. If you wanna major in biomedical engineering, this class will give you a _huge_ leg up. The shit we’re doing this semester is next level stuff.”

“Like what?”

“Like groundbreaking, future of medicine stuff. ‘Get you into the best PhD programs and research careers’ stuff. It’s gonna be nearly impossible for a freshman to get a spot, especially this late, but if you go to his office and flash that photo of you and Tony Stark, he might let you in. That thing is like a golden ticket around here. You better go talk to him like, _right now_, though.”

Peter considers a moment, thinking of the promise he’s made May. “Yeah, okay. I’ll try. Why not?”

“I’m telling you, man—you will not regret it,” Harry says.

**

Dr. Connors is younger than Peter was expecting, intense but kind-eyed, and possessing a sort of benevolent charisma that is instantly appealing. His right arm is a prosthesis, Peter also immediately notices—not like Tony’s elaborately engineered device, but a simple molded plastic mounted with a metal pincer on the end. Peter tries not to let his eyes linger on it for too long while they talk in Dr. Connors’ cramped basement office.

Peter doesn’t show him the photo of him and Tony, but he does talk about the internship he did with SI’s Science & Tech division, and how he’d been working on getting a patent for a medical adhesive he’d invented before the Blip had thrown that into disarray, and Dr. Connors seems satisfactorily impressed.

“We already have a solid idea of how cells cooperate to build a complex three-dimensional organ, and we’ve managed to reproduce it in the lab with amphibians that are not normally regenerative with a high degree of success,” Dr. Connors tells Peter as he shows him around the laboratory where he conducts his research. “There’s no reason why we should stop there. We’re starting mammalian trials next—mice, rats, rabbits. And from there…well, we have a proof-of-principle roadmap in place for human medicine.”

“You’re talking about like, people regrowing limbs and stuff,” Peter says, unable to hold back the startled thrill that evokes in him.

Dr. Connors smiles warmly. “Yes, that’s the goal—one of them. The potential scope is tremendous—limb and tissue regeneration, rapid wound healing, anti-aging therapies, even curing cancer.” He holds up his prosthesis. “Obviously, I have a _slight_ personal stake in pursuing this project, but we could help a lot of people if we can just crack it. Is that something you would be interested in?” 

Peter thinks of Tony, of the first time he’d shown Peter the prosthetic arm he’d built for himself—gleaming red and gold, a perfect blend of art and utility, like everything Tony makes. 

“Keeping it on brand. Can’t go wrong with hot rod red. It’s my way of telling the world I still got it in my old age. I mean, look at this thing—irresistible sex appeal, baby,” Tony had joked, flexing the metal arm like a body builder while Peter had rolled his eyes. “Hey, it works on Pepper. I’m set.”

Tony had then offered him a popcorn kernel and a BB pellet as part of a little experiment to test the device’s sensitivity. 

Peter had done as he was instructed, mixing the BB and the popcorn kernel up behind his back while Tony had stood with his eyes closed, and then Peter had held out the kernel in his open hand, holding his breath while Tony had reached out blindly and felt it with the prosthesis, metal fingertips cool against Peter’s palm.

“Popcorn kernel,” Tony had said almost immediately, his smile going smug when Peter confirmed his answer. He’d wiggled metallic fingers in front of Peter’s face and pinched his nose with them. “Pretty impressive, huh, kid? And that’s just the start.”

It had been impressive, but there had been something performative about, as well, like Tony had been trying to reassure him—_see, kid? Just an arm, NBD, I’ll make one even better than the real deal, won’t even miss it._ But Peter’s seen the way Morgan refuses to hold Tony’s artificial hand, and it makes something ache in some deep place inside of him.

“Yeah, absolutely,” he tells Dr. Connors.

Dr. Connors smiles again, reaching over to shake Peter’s hand. “Then welcome aboard, Mr. Parker.”

**

Peter goes out that night in the Spidey suit for the first time since moving in.

He spends a half-hour beforehand in his dorm room with the door locked and his suits laid out on the bed, compulsively picking them up and then putting them down over and over again, before finally making up his mind to do it.

He wears the black stealth suit he and Tony had started making together that summer instead of the familiar red-and-blue one, because he’s still not sure how he wants to handle the whole Spider-Man thing here in Boston, and he figures this way he can go a little incognito—an alter ego for his alter ego. The suit’s a prototype, bare bones—no fancy web combinations, no helpful little droney, no Karen chirping in his ear.

He hitches a ride across the river on top of a bus into Boston proper, and spends an hour just swinging around, trying to get a feel for the new suit and the new city.

_Give me feedback,_ Tony texts him. _This is your 1st time taking it for a spin outside of the lab, right?_

_Yep,_ Peter replies. _it’s good so far. a little pinchy around the spider eggs tho_

_I’ve told you many times I do not accept arachnid-related euphemisms for genitalia. Cease and desist,_ Tony texts back. 

_u asked for feedback ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯_

It’s a quiet night. He stops and takes some pictures of cool Iron Man street art he finds. He offers to walk a drunk BU coed standing alone and crying outside of a bar back to her dorm, but ends up accidentally scaring her—a drawback of the black suit-mask combo, he realizes belatedly. 

He retreats and calls a taxi for her, then spends a few more hours swinging around the city, past buildings and across streets that feel alien and lonely. 

**

A week or so later, Tony sends him a package.

It isn’t at the campus post office where May, deep in the throes of empty nester syndrome, has been sending a near constant stream of care packages. Instead, Peter returns to his residence hall after class one afternoon to find a sleek drone silently hovering near the building’s entrance in a vaguely menacing manner, a neat little box securely clasped to its underside.

Peter rolls his eyes as the drone scans him and then drops the box into his possession with a satisfied beeping sound before zipping away.

“Tony Stark sent you this?” Rahul asks upstairs in Peter’s room, holding the box reverently. “And I’m touching it? I’m touching something that _Tony Stark_ touched?”

“Mm-hm,” Peter hums affirmatively, bent over his calculus textbook at his desk.

“Holy shit,” Rahul breathes out, awed. “Aren’t you going to open it?”

Peter waves his pencil at him. “Yeah, go ahead.”

“I can—you want me to open it?” Rahul asks, sounding strangled with joy and disbelief.

“Yeah, open it. Just be ready to be disappointed.”

“Are you fucking kidding? This is a holy act I’m about to perform,” Rahul says solemnly, holding the package up. “I am a lowly worm groveling at the feet of a god, a god who has inexplicably blessed the weird white kid next door with a token of his favor.”

Peter sighs, exhausted. “Dude. Just open it.”

Rahul does, reverently peeling away packing tape. There’s a single item inside the box—one of those digital picture frames that you can upload photos to via an app on your phone.

Peter plugs it into the outlet under his desk and turns it on. There’s a series of photos already uploaded to it, and after a short setup they brighten the frame’s screen.

He and Rahul sit side-by-side on the floor in silence for several minutes, watching the frame slowly cycle through its preloaded images. Each one is a picture of Tony—Tony in sunglasses on a yacht, Tony behind the wheel of one of his many sports cars, Tony standing in front of a poster of himself, and on and on. He’s wearing the same dark sunglasses and stoic, unsmiling expression in each, and a t-shirt with one of Peter’s awful high school yearbook photos screen printed on the front.

“Okay...I don’t know what exactly I expected, but this isn’t it,” Rahul says finally, once the frame reaches the end of its cycle and starts again. 

“I warned you,” Peter says. “I said you’d be disappointed.”

“Is it like a joke or something?” Rahul asks, desperate to understand, like a man who’s just been given a stone tablet etched with a message from a deity, only the message is written in gibberish. 

“Yes, and no. Don’t try to figure it out, just accept it and move on. It’s better that way, trust me,” Peter replies, bending over his calculus homework once more.

**

_Did you get the package I sent?_ Tony texts to him sometime around ten at night.

_Yep thanks,_ Peter types back. _The guy next door was very disappointed. you’re gonna ruin ur rep here_

_Good,_ Tony replies.

**

A few days later, a girl in Peter’s chemistry class has a complete breakdown in the middle of their lab.

“I don’t want to freak you out, but from what I understand it’s only gonna get worse,” Gwen says after the girl is led sobbing from the room by a couple of other students and the T.A. “I heard that one of the seniors on the floor above me had a bad reaction to Adderall last year during finals and stripped buck-fucking-naked on the lawn in front of the Great Dome in the middle of the afternoon. Campus security had to chase him down and tackle him.”

“For real? That’s crazy,” Peter says, frowning. “Is he okay?”

Gwen shrugs. “Are any of us okay?” 

She looks across the table at Peter, adjusting her lab goggles, then adds, “The first time I saw you, you reminded me of a puppy someone had dumped on the side of the road. You looked like you were going to die of exposure. My opinion hasn’t changed. I’m just waiting for you to strip naked and totally lose it.”

“Wow, thanks. That really makes me confident about my future here,” Peter says, a little miffed. “You remind me of a friend of mine. That sounds like something she would say.”

“She sounds awesome,” Gwen says, turning her attention back to the test tubes between them.

“She is,” Peter confirms. “She’s great. She’s crazy smart and...blunt, but like, in an honest way. She’s big on honesty.”

“Does she go here? You should introduce us. I could use a friend like that in my life.”

“She’s at Barnard.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Gwen says, fiddling with the spectrometer. “I guess I’ll settle for you, then. You wanna get coffee together after we get out of here?”

“Okay,” Peter replies, not sure if he’s pleased or insulted.

**

All this talk about people losing it must have settled like a time bomb deep in his subconscious, because on the morning of his first-ever college exam, Peter wakes up with a crippling stomachache and the worst nosebleed of his life.

His bed looks like the scene of a murder, his sheets and pillow drenched. He hovers over his sink for twenty-minutes with his head held tilted back and toilet paper shoved up his nostrils before the deluge finally stops, and just barely makes it to the exam on time, dried blood still stuck to the bow of his lip.

**

There’s a new series of photos circulating on the digital picture frame Tony sent.

These feature Tony and Peter together, only Peter is asleep in every single one—in the passenger seat of Tony’s car, in his bunk bed at his and May’s pre-Blip apartment, on the couch at Tony’s place, on the living room floor at the lake house with his face covered in Morgan’s My Little Pony stickers, and on and on. Tony sits next to Peter’s unconscious, drooling body in each, flashing a thumbs up with one hand while giving Peter bunny ears with the other.

“I can’t decide if this is creepy or cute,” Gwen says, sitting on Peter’s bed and holding the frame. She’s a lot nicer and less intense when removed from stressful academic settings, Peter has learned since they started spending time together outside of chemistry lab.

“It’s creepy,” Harry says, lounging next to her with an unlit joint hanging off his lip. He’s already happily absorbed Gwen into their tight little circle, completely smitten with her total open disdain for his lifestyle. “That’s what makes it so amazing. What do we know about Tony Stark? He’s filthy fucking rich, he’s a genius, he saved the entire universe from obliteration—oh, and he has a giant creepy collection of pictures of him posing with his sleeping intern.”

“I dunno, it’s kind of...humanizing,” Gwen says generously. “I mean, he looks like a dad having fun at the expense of his kid or something.”

“Wait—dads have fun with their kids?” Harry asks with exaggerated surprise. “Somebody tell my old man he’s been doing it wrong all these years.”

“Yeah, I’m sure your life was so hard, what with the massive penthouses in the city and summer vacations on the Mediterranean,” Gwen says dryly, plucking the joint out of his mouth and tossing it into the waste bin by Peter’s desk.

“Money doesn’t buy happiness, Stacy,” Harry says. “Well, maybe Tony Stark-money does. What’s the verdict, Parker?”

“Are you asking me if Tony Stark is happy?” Peter asks, taken aback by the question. It occurs to him that he has no idea how to answer that, but Gwen continues talking before he can dwell on it for too long.

“I still can’t get over this,” she says, examining the photos as they scroll past again. “It’s surreal. It’s like finding out your friend’s been hanging out with God, and you ask your friend what God is like, expecting to hear all kinds of amazing things, and instead your friend tells you God does a really good Kermit the Frog impression and makes great grilled cheese sandwiches.”

“I mean, he does though,” Peter insists. “It’s the bread, I think. It’s like rich people bread is so much better than poor people bread or something.”

“Can confirm,” Harry says. “The bread they feed us in the dining halls is garbage.”

Gwen rolls her eyes. “Peter. Tony Stark is basically the most brilliant man to ever live, his inventions have changed the world and saved billions of people just here on our planet alone, and you act like his greatest accomplishment is making a decent grilled cheese sandwich.”

“It’s not just the sandwich, though,” Peter tries to explain. “Like, you have a bad day at school or—doing whatever, and you feel like shit, and Tony Stark sits you down and makes you a grilled cheese sandwich. He has a million other _way_ more important things to do, but he takes the time just for you. And he was really bad at it at first, so he tries a hundred different recipes and makes like a hundred practice sandwiches just to get it right. For _you_—some random kid, you know?”

“Nah, man, I get it. I mean, _fuck_—I wish Tony Stark would make me a grilled cheese sandwich,” Harry says longingly. 

He rolls over, wrapping his arms around Peter’s waist. “I’d learn how to make a grilled cheese sandwich for you, too, babe. I’d make it perfect, babe. I’d make it with the best rich people bread money could buy, babe.”

“Aw, babe—would you?” Peter asks with a saccharine smile. “With the rich people bread? Babe, that’s too much.”

Harry boops him on the nose. “Anything for you, babe. Love you so much, babe. My sweet baby babe.” 

“Sometimes I don’t understand how the two of you could possibly be friends, but then I’ll be reminded that you’re both total weirdos with hardcore daddy issues and it all makes sense,” Gwen says, disgusted.

**

From time to time, Peter checks various social media sites for news about Spider-Man.

His absence around New York City is definitely being noticed now. #WHERESSPIDEY is trending on Twitter. There are rumors on the SpideyWatch subreddit that he’s been killed on the orders of the Manfredi family and buried under concrete at a construction site. People are posting pictures on Instagram of shrines devoted to Spider-Man that have popped up all around the city, gathering mourners. 

He’s stuck the red-and-blue suit back into the box and shoved it into the far reaches under his bed. He has the sense now, however irrational, that wearing it here in Boston would be an act of betrayal. He may have fought once on an alien planet billions of miles from Earth, but it feels like Spider-Man belongs to New York City.

He continues patrolling in the black stealth suit instead, staying up late to make modifications to it as he grows more familiar with the suit and the city and the needs that shape both. 

When he gets an idea for an improved version of his web fluid formula, he disables the security system in the building that houses Dr. Connors’ lab and uses the chemicals and equipment there to play around with it, going back several times in the dead-of-night, feeling a little ping of uneasy guilt in the pit of his stomach each time. But if anyone notices the missing supplies, he never hears about it, and eventually the anxiety settles. 

He breaks up bar brawls among drunk Patriots fans. He fractures his clavicle stopping an out-of-control SUV on Comm Avenue. He rescues a little girl’s cat that’s climbed up the fire escape to her building’s rooftop. He hides bruises and cuts and dark under-eye circles from his professors and classmates and fellow dorm residents. He starts lying more, telling all the usual half-truths and excuses, and making up new ones when he has to. 

People are starting to take notice now. A group of Harvard students stop him one night and ask him to take a picture with them, and then buy him a coffee from one of the ubiquitous Dunkin’ Donuts. A grandmother gives him a huge bag of Portuguese sweet rolls after he carries her groceries to the top of a triple-decker. A cop pulls his gun on him. He is cursed at in the local Boston slang in a manner that feels familiar despite the different accent.

It’s...okay, he thinks. Not quite right, like wearing a borrowed suit a few sizes too big or small, but he tells himself that it’s okay.

**

Late one night, MJ sends him a Boston Globe article interviewing people who have had encounters with the elusive masked vigilante the locals have dubbed “Night Monkey.” A blurry photo accompanies the article, capturing a figure in black as it turns to look towards the camera, large white eyes stark bright against the grainy greyscale, looking like some kind of cryptid.

_Be careful over there,_ reads the text attached to the article. _theres a suspicious character on the loose_

_night monkey??? really??_ he types back, a little irked by the moniker. Then, _you read the boston globe?_

_i like to know whats going on in your neck of the woods,_ she replies. _you know me. ever vigilant. always watching_

_im getting mad stalker vibes,_ Peter texts. 

_someone has to look out for you,_ she responds. 

Peter lies in bed and reads that last message from her over and over again, trying to figure out if it means something or if he’s reading too much into it, until he falls asleep. 

**

Gossip about Night Monkey starts spreading around campus, too, with people speculating about his origins and identity. Peter suspects Ned is the source of a lot of these rumors, given that they’re mostly misdirection but have just enough grains of truth that people readily latch onto them.

“I read that he’s just some ordinary guy who’s using modified alien anti-grav tech to pull off the wall climbing stuff,” Harry says one morning while he’s treating Peter and Gwen to breakfast at a coffee shop in Kendall Square.

“It’s Spider-Man,” Gwen says, blowing on her coffee. 

Peter chokes on his bagel.

“A lame rip-off Spider-Man, yeah,” Harry says, pounding Peter on the back.

“No, I mean—Night Monkey _is_ Spider-Man,” Gwen clarifies. “They’re the same person.”

“I dunno about that,” Harry says skeptically, pulling Peter’s chair around. “Bro—are you dying? Do I need to do the Heimlich on you?”

Peter shakes his head, still violently coughing, his eyes streaming.

“They are,” Gwen insists. “Look—doesn’t it seem weird to you that this Night Monkey person shows up here right around the same time people start noticing that Spider-Man has vanished from New York?”

“I dunno,” Harry says again. “Anyone can just put on a spandex onesie these days and call themselves a superhero. Like you got that guy in Hell’s Kitchen who’s been beating the shit outta criminals. You know, the dude in the fetish get up?”

“Daredevil,” Peter wheezes.

“Yeah, him. Man, I dig his whole aesthetic. Like a bondage master on steroids with a little Dante’s Inferno thrown in. That guy really gets the whole theatrical element of costumed superhero-ing.”

Gwen rolls her eyes. “Okay, what about the fact that they both climb walls and swing around? I mean, _come on._ I’m telling you—they’re the _same_ person.”

“_Or_ he’s a lame copy-cat,” Harry says. “Why would Spider-Man come to this second-rate shit hole when he’s got a first-rate shit hole in New York City?”

Gwen shrugs. “Maybe he got a job here? Or he’s going to one of the colleges in the area?”

Peter is pretty sure he’s dying now. His heart is doing some kind of horrible irregular fluttering thing and he feels cold and achy all over, like he’s come down with a terrible flu.

“If Spider-Man is a college student now that would mean he started out when he was like thirteen or fourteen-years-old,” Harry points out. “Who the fuck lets a kid fight crime? That’s like child abuse.”

“He could be a grad student,” Gwen suggests.

“I agree with Harry,” Peter says hoarsely. “Spider-Man wouldn’t leave New York.”

“Well, you guys are dumb and wrong,” Gwen says with finality, sipping her coffee.

**

Peter puts the stealth suit back under his bed for a time, hoping to allow the attention it’s drawn to cool off a few degrees before he tries wearing it again.

He doesn’t really have time for patrolling, anyway—midterms are right around the corner, and he spends all of his free time studying until he’s cross-eyed and half-dead from lack of sleep and sunlight, and then studies some more. 

“I dunno why you’re so stressed out,” Harry tells him during one of their late night joint study sessions. “You’re already smarter than half the professors here. I think Dr. Connors wants to adopt you. Or suck your dick, I dunno.”

“_Dude,_” Peter says. 

“I mean like, metaphorically. He’s definitely doing some pretty hardcore metaphorical dick sucking. He’s always like—” Harry affects a voice and mannerisms vaguely recognizable as Dr. Connors—“Mr. Parker is the brightest mind of his generation, he’s single-handedly carrying the rest of you feeble-minded idiots on his perfectly muscled shoulders.”

“He does _not_ say that.”

“Maybe not those exact words, but the sentiment is there. We all know you’re the golden child. Everyone in his special topics class hates your guts.”

Peter looks up from his calculus textbook. “Do they seriously?”

“Well, not everyone. I’m in there and I adore you, you cute little muffin,” Harry says, leaning over to pinch Peter’s cheek. 

Peter brushes his hand away. “Harry, do they really hate me?” 

“No, they don’t hate you,” Harry says, rolling his eyes. “Jesus, it was a joke. Forget I said that. You need to like go for a run or something. You’re so on edge. Who are you trying to impress? Daddy Stark?”

“If you put the words ‘daddy' and ‘Stark' in the same sentence again, I will throw myself out of that window,” Peter threatens. “I’m dead serious.”

“You really need to chill. Do you want to smoke a joint or something?”

“No, I’m fine.” Peter runs a hand over his face. “I just need to do really well on these exams, and catch up on a million pages of reading, and finish two papers due this week that I haven’t started yet, and finish my lab report tonight so Gwen doesn’t kill me tomorrow.”

“You got this, man,” Harry tells him optimistically. “So, uh—what’s the deal with you two, anyway?”

“Huh?”

“You and Gwen. You guys got like, a thing?”

Peter ducks his head back into his calculus textbook, frowning. “Uh. No? I’m not sure she can look past the fact that I’m basically the worst lab partner ever. She’s a little...intense about her grades.”

Harry snorts. “Yeah, I’ve noticed. She’s even nerdier than you. I thought that would drive me crazy, but it’s kinda charming, actually.”

“Yeah, you can say that because she’s not breathing down your neck about lab reports all the time,” Peter says. “You only see the nice Gwen Stacy that exists outside of class. She can get _really_ scary in the lab.”

“I dunno, I like that she’s willing to maim and murder for her academic ambitious. This place can get fuckin’ cutthroat. I want her on our team,” Harry says. He pauses a moment, then asks, “What about you, though? I mean—do you like her? Just—I don’t wanna step on any toes if you got a thing for her. ‘Cause if you don’t have a thing for her...”

He trails off, looking over at Peter, a kind of tentative hope written on his face.

“Oh,” Peter says, feeling completely blindsided by how crushed he is. “I—no. I mean, yes, I like her, she’s great, but not like...that. So. It’s fine. It’s cool.”

Harry smiles, looking relieved now. “Awesome. That’s good to know. Thanks for clearing that up, man.”

“Yeah, sure,” Peter says, forcing a smile.

**

In the days right before midterms, he starts waking up every morning with a nosebleed and a stomachache. His sheets and pillowcases are permanently stained with large rusty-brown patches that refuse to wash out.

He googles whether it’s possible to die from a nosebleed. He googles aneurysms, ulcers, brain cancer, works himself into a spiral. He calls May in the middle of the night a couple of times, begging her to come get him before talking himself down and assuring her that everything is fine, just stress and too much caffeine, no biggie, no, don’t come, he’s fine, he’s fine, he’s fine.

May sends him new sheets and pillows, a weighted blanket, a humidifier. She sends lavender-scented shower gel, bags of ginger and peppermint tea. She sends economy-sized bottles of store brand Pepto-Bismol, a book on meditation, noise-cancelling headphones that she definitely can’t afford.

Peter aces all of his exams. When the grades are posted online, he takes a screenshot and sends it to May and Tony. It feels a little silly, like a third grader showing off the straight-A’s on his report card, but he wants them to know that everything they’ve done for him is paying off, that he’s thriving here.

May calls him almost as soon as he hits send, screaming in his ear, her excitement uncontainable. When he finally gets off the call with her, he sees that Tony’s sent him a text message.

_Hey that’s our brilliant boy. Proud of you, kid,_ it reads, and Peter thinks that all of this is worth it.

**

He’s still recovering from the chaos of midterms when he gets a text from Harry late one night.

_come downstairs,_ it reads. _me and gwen are waiting. we’re going to the unblippening party_

“The what party?” Peter asks after he dresses and meets Harry and Gwen downstairs.

“The second annual Un-Blippening party,” Harry says as he leads the way. “AKA the biggest and best party of the year. The senior engineering students at East Campus host it, but pretty much every college student and their mother in the Boston area comes. Basically, we all get together to celebrate the fact that we’re all alive again by trying to kill ourselves with copious amounts of alcohol and stupidity. It’s a great time, you’ll see.”

There’s already a sizable crowd gathered in the courtyard between buildings when they arrive. Peter has zero knowledge of this sort of thing outside of dated pop culture references, but the general atmosphere feels closer to a carnival than a college party. There’s a group of girls with brightly dyed hair spinning lit torches in rhythm with the music blasting from an array of speakers, and an actual working wooden roller coaster a group of students have built themselves. A good portion of the crowd is cosplaying as Iron Man in incredible home-made armor that must have taken weeks to craft, but Peter spots a several other Avengers in the crowd, too, including a handful of drunk Spider-Men and even a couple of Night Monkeys.

“Party favor?” Harry asks as he holds out a pill to Peter, before adding in an exaggerated whisper, “Don’t tell Gwen. I have priors and her dad’s a cop. I don’t want her narcing on me. I’m too pretty to go to jail.”

Gwen rolls her eyes, scoffing. “You’re too rich and too white to go to jail, you mean. Your dad would grease some palms and you’d get another slap on the wrist. Sometimes I hate you.”

“You’d be so bored without me in your life and you know it,” Harry says to her, before turning his attention back to Peter. “Yes, no, maybe so?”

Peter eyes the pill, hesitating. He’s pretty sure May’s request that he try new things does not include illicit drugs, but the temptation to do something completely stupid after many stressful weeks of tightly holding himself together is a powerful one.

“I’ve never even smoked pot,” he says, still trying to make up his mind. “I mean, I probably accidentally inhaled it at some point, but I’ve never actively sought it out.”

“Seriously? Damn, a virgin.” Harry leans close, grinning. “So can I pop your cherry?”

Peter snorts out a laugh even as he feels a prickle of heat across his cheeks and ears. “Yeah. Okay, yeah.”

“You’re sure?” Harry asks, serious now. “You don’t have to.”

“No, it’s fine. I want to,” Peter says decisively, lingering doubts assuaged by the fact that he’s about ninety-percent certain his body will plow unyieldingly through whatever substance the pill contains the same way it does through basically every other drug manufactured for normal people.

He holds his hand out for the pill, but Harry raises it higher instead.

“Open up,” Harry demands.

Peter opens his mouth, sticking his tongue out. Harry makes a sloppy sign of the cross and carefully lays the pill on Peter’s tongue.

“May our lord and savior, Tony Stark, bless you with solid grades, lenient professors, and favorable deadlines,” Harry prays solemnly, crossing himself again.

“Amen,” Peter says, not quite able to keep a straight face.

“Amen,” Gwen echoes. “Now can we please go try the roller coaster? I want to ride it now before everyone gets super wasted and starts puking all over it.”

They’ve ridden the roller coaster twice when Peter realizes that his confidence in his body’s ability to harmlessly metabolize whatever was in the pill was very, very misguided, because the drug’s effects hit him hard and fast and completely out-of-the-blue, like a speeding train.

“Whoa,” Peter says, stumbling as the world tilts suddenly off its axis, everything becoming louder and sharper and almost violently vivid.

Harry grabs him under the arms, grinning. “Yeah. How is it?”

Peter blinks up at him, breathing hard, his blood pounding in his ears. “It’s...kinda intense. Is—is everything supposed to be this bright? Shit. This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“No, it sounds like it’s working right,” Harry says, clearly amused. “Lemme get you some water. Hang on a minute—stay here with Gwen. Go sit over on that bench.”

Gwen grabs Peter’s hand in a tight grip and drags him through the crowd towards the bench. The sway and motion of the tightly packed bodies is nauseating to follow as they pass through them. Peter squeezes his eyes shut and tries to focus on the feeling of Gwen’s hand clasped around his, tugging him along, until his legs are bumping into the hard metal of the bench.

They sit down close together, still holding hands.

“Oh, man,” Peter says, when it feels like the bench continues to move under him. “Why do people do this? This sucks.”

“Please don’t die,” Gwen says. “I don’t want to be associated with this stupidity for the rest of my time here.”

Peter huffs out a little laugh, cautiously opening his eyes and then regretting it when sparks of light and color start streaking in serpentine patterns in front of him.

“I’m not gonna die,” he assures her, blinking rapidly in a futile attempt to clear his vision. “I’m really hard to kill. A _lot_ of people have tried it, like…_dozens_…but only one succeeded—and he couldn’t even do it permanently. I’ve been stabbed, dragged under cars, crashed a plane, broke both my legs falling off a building...Did I ever tell you that somebody shot me the night before I was supposed to come here?”

“What the fuck?” Gwen says. “Peter?”

“Yeah. People get—rude. I’m just—like—don’t do crimes and I won’t bother you, okay? And then they’re like—shooting at me. So rude,” Peter mumbles, distracted by the alternating sensations of weightlessness and heaviness in his limbs. “Even the people I save...I pulled a guy out of a burning car the other night, and he said he was gonna sue me...Like dude, I don’t have any money... I’m _killing_ myself trying to help you, and you wanna sue me? I just want to help people, you know? I’m just trying to do the right thing, but it’s so—_exhausting_…”

“Peter, what the _fuck?_” Gwen says again, but Peter’s barely aware she’s even there beside him at this point. Everything feels floaty and distant and unreal.

The party dissolves into a turbulent sea of movement and smeary swirls and pinwheels of color and light. He can feel the music vibrating across his skin like a swarm of insects, pulsing deep in his chest. Another wave of nausea rolls over him.

He stands up. Gwen tightens her grip on his hand, and it feels like he’s jerked back into his body.

“Hey, where are you going?” she asks. “Stay here, okay?”

“I’m just gonna go over there away from the speakers for a bit,” Peter replies, pointing to the far end of the courtyard where the crowd is thinner. He pulls his hand free before she can say anything else and starts easing his way past dancing, faceless bodies.

He makes it to the end of the courtyard and stands there for a moment, gulping down breaths of cold air that sting the back of his throat. A couple, both cosplaying as Iron Man, are intimately entangled against the wall a few feet away. The girl has drawn on a goatee with eyeliner or a brow pencil or something, and it’s smeared across her face now.

Her companion notices Peter watching and comes up for air long enough to flash a middle finger at him. “Dude, quit creeping. Fucking hell, man.”

Peter mutters an apology and wanders off around the corner of the building. There’s another mural painted on the wall on this side near a bike rack—Iron Man looming larger-than-life, fist raised triumphantly. People have written little notes all over it in sharpie or paint—little messages of gratitude, expressions of love and devotion written in a dozen different languages. Peter tries to read them, but the words seem to shiver and melt whenever he looks directly at them.

“Hey, Parker! Parker. _Peter._”

There’s a hand on his shoulder, and Peter turns to find Harry standing next to him, his expression concerned.

“Hey—hey, man, you okay?” Harry asks. “You’re crying.”

“I am?” Peter lifts a hand to his cheek, finding wetness there. “Oh, weird. That’s so weird. I don’t even know why.” He gestures to the mural, watching his hand float up, weightless. “I was just looking at that.”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “You’ve been standing here looking at it for like an hour.”

Peter blinks slowly at him, frowning. “I have?”

“Yeah. I’ve been watching you.”

Peter looks up at the mural again, dazed. 

“It didn’t feel like an hour,” he mumbles. “It felt like...like a few minutes, like...that’s what it felt like. The Blip. Like I hadn’t been gone...I came back and they said it’d been five years. How do you—you go away, you just…_aren’t_ anymore, and everyone’s like, lived this life without you? Like, people got remarried, you know? People moved into your home. People had kids. And you come back and you’re just—supposed to fit back in? Like...a puzzle piece. But it’s not like that, it’s not...”

“It’s okay,” Harry says. He pulls his sleeve over the heel of his hand and swipes it across Peter’s cheek, under his eye, and Peter feels himself unravel a little at the touch.

“It’s not, though. I don’t know what I’m doing,” Peter tells him, taking a shaky breath. “I keep telling myself everything is okay—everyone keeps telling me everything is okay, but it’s not. I’m trying so hard but it doesn’t feel good enough.”

“No one has a fucking clue what they’re doing,” Harry says. “If someone says they know what they’re doing, they’re liars.” He points at the mural. “Probably that guy doesn’t even know. We’re putting up statues of him and shit—he didn’t even know how to make a grilled cheese sandwich until some hungry little kid came along. We’re all just telling ourselves it’s okay and we know what we’re doing, and hoping everything works out. That’s all. So it’s not just you. You’re not doing anything wrong—there’s nothing wrong with you, okay?”

“Yeah...” Peter nods, sniffling. He wipes his nose with his knuckles. “I think I want to go back to my dorm now.”

“Okay, sure, I’ll take you back. Let me go find Gwen,” Harry says. “Don’t go anywhere, okay? Just stay right there, no matter what. I’ll be right back.”

Peter waits. It might be an hour or a few minutes—he doesn’t trust his sense of time anymore. Everything feels dilated, skewed. He realizes at some point that he’s shaking all over, whether from the cold or the drugs or something else, and he hugs himself, squeezing until it hurts.

Harry reappears with Gwen in tow, and the next thing Peter knows he’s standing in front of his residence hall.

“Maybe we should come up and stay with you for a bit,” Gwen offers, a faint worry line between her brows.

“No, it’s okay. I’m okay now,” Peter says. “I think it’s wearing off. You guys go back to the party or whatever.”

“You sure?” Harry asks.

“Yeah,” Peter insists. “I’m fine. I’m just gonna go to bed.”

Harry looks at him a moment longer, biting his lip, and then he hugs him, squeezing tight. “Hey—I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

Peter isn’t sure what he’s apologizing for, but he doesn’t care because it feels good to hear it regardless.

“It’s fine. Really. I think I’m just…over-tired from exams or something. Don’t worry about it. I feel fine now,” he says. He pulls back, wrapping his arms around himself and forcing a smile. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

They part ways and Peter heads upstairs to his room. He digs his phone out of his pocket and crawls into bed, burrowing under the covers, cocooning himself in soft, warm darkness. He unlocks his phone and finds the contact he wants, calling it.

The phone rings several times, and he wonders if he’s calling too late, if everyone’s gone to bed. Another thought intrudes a second later, that maybe something has happened, something bad. He wouldn’t know—no one would tell him, he’d have to hear it on the news or see it on Twitter or—

“Hey, kid, what’s up?” 

“Hey, Mr. Stark,” Peter says, surprised by the steadiness of his voice. His heart is racing. “Nothing. I just wanted to tell you—I’m good. Everything is really going good here. I’m doing really good and—Mr. Stark, are you good? I mean, like—are you happy?”

“Am I happy? Sure. I watched a five-hour-long Barbie movie marathon with Morgan today. How could you not feel happy after that? So I’m doing just great, buddy, thanks for asking,” Tony says. “What you on right now?”

“Um, this is gonna sound really bad, but I don’t actually know. A friend offered me something and I just took it. That’s dumb, I know. And this isn’t an excuse, just an explanation—but I didn’t think it would actually work—‘cause, you know, nothing else does—but it did. So. Can you maybe not tell May?”

“I’ll stick it in the vault, but only because you are at least aware that that was dumb. Don’t do it again, alright? Taking unknown substances is how I wound up naked and handcuffed with all my clothes and valuables stolen while on a business trip to the Balkans back in the nineties. Trying to get out of that mess in the middle of a war zone was not fun, believe me,” Tony says. “Are you okay? Where are you?”

“Yeah, I’m good. I’m back in my dorm room, I’m—Mr. Stark, do you ever think about it?”

“Think about what?”

Peter swallows hard. “You know, the whole thing with—with the gauntlet and all that, with…Do you ever think about like…if it didn’t go right…if something—_bad_—had happened…”

There’s a long pause on the other end of the call, and Peter regrets asking. He’s about to apologize when Tony starts talking again.

“Yeah, I thought about it,” Tony says finally. “I had a lot of doubts, a lot of fears. I had a lot to lose, you understand that. But I had a hell of lot to gain, too. We all did. And it’s not about me—I’m just one old man among trillions of other lives. I went into it with my eyes wide open, kid, and I got really lucky. And when you get lucky like that…I try not to dwell on the ‘what ifs’ now. You don’t need to think about them, either. I don’t want you worrying about that. It’s done. We’re good. We’re all good. Right?”

“Right,” Peter agrees, his throat tight.

“Okay. Go to bed now, alright? Text me in the morning so I know you’re alive.”

“Yeah. Sorry, I will. Good night.”

“Night, kid.”

**

“I think I maybe accidentally joined a cult,” Peter tells Ned when they meet up for lunch a few days later in between classes.

“I’m pretty sure that’s just what being an engineering major at MIT is like,” Ned replies, shrugging. He’s grown a wispy little goatee in the style that’s popular with so many of the guys around campus.

“Yeah, maybe,” Peter says, frowning down at his turkey wrap.

“You can always come over to the dark side and join us Comp Sci majors,” Ned offers. “Although honestly? I’m not sure it’s any better. I’ve been dreaming in code, and I’m still only taking mostly gen eds right now. Sometimes I think I should just send my portfolio to Google and hope they free me before I descend deeper into hell.”

“I think I’m good.”

“You wanna at least come to my room to hang out tonight? Natesh is bringing the new West Coast Avengers PS5 game. He just unlocked Black Panther.”

“That sounds awesome, but I already told Harry I’d help him with his physics homework tonight,” Peter says. 

“Yeah, you guys are like inseparable. I’m starting to feel like I’ve been replaced,” Ned says. He’s too nice and knows Peter too well for it to be anything other than a joke, but Peter feels a twinge of guilt anyway.

“I think I like him,” he confesses.

“Yeah, obviously.”

“No, like—I think I _like_ him,” Peter clarifies.

“Ohhh,” Ned replies, his eyes and mouth going comically wide and round. “Damn, dude, look at you—just out here living your best college life. Does this mean you like guys now? ‘Cause I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk like this about a guy before, except like, Thor maybe, but that’s _Thor._”

Peter isn’t sure he likes guys now so much as he likes Harry in particular, who is everything Peter is not—confident and effortlessly cool and careless in the way of someone who has always had and always will have a lot of money, and who doesn’t seem to give a flying fuck that Peter is none of those things.

“I dunno,” Peter says. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Does he know?”

“Nope.”

“Are you gonna tell him?”

“Nope,” Peter says again, firmly.

“Peter, we’re in _college_ now,” Ned says patiently, like he’s explaining something to a particularly dense five-year-old. “This time is all about exploring and living as our most authentic selves, before we graduate and have to start wearing suits and conforming to the standards of our garbage capitalist heteronormative society, day in and day out, until global warming finally kills us all.”

“Brutally repressing my feelings to protect the people I care about _is_ a very authentic part of being me, though,” Peter points out.

“Dude, come on. When you wanted to tell MJ you liked her, you had this whole elaborate plan. It was dumb and dorky, but like, in a charming, romantic way—in a _Peter Parker_ way,” Ned says.

“Yeah, and look how that turned out. Last time I checked, she’s still seeing Brad Davis,” Peter says a little bitterly, picking apart his wrap with his fingers. 

“Man, I really wanna hate that guy, but he’s so damn nice,” Ned says. “Nice, and disgustingly handsome. It isn’t fair. But Peter—this is great. This is your chance to move on.”

Peter shakes his head. “It’s pointless, anyway. He likes someone else. A girl.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. But it’s fine. It’s better this way,” Peter says. “Getting close like that with someone—it doesn’t work for me. There’s too many—complications. The thing with MJ proved that. I don’t need that right now. I just want a _normal_ college experience, like everyone else—as close to it as I can get, I mean. I want people to like me, I want to impress my professors, and get good grades, and have a future—one that maybe doesn’t just involve beating bad guys up. And if want all of that, then I _can’t_ be myself, not really. There has to be—a separation. You know that.”

Ned’s expression is soft, sympathetic. “Pete, man—”

“That’s not why I’m here,” Peter interrupts before Ned can say anything else. “That’s all just a distraction. I already feel like I’m walking on a tightrope over a pit of spikes or something, and I can’t fuck this up. I don’t want to let anyone down. So I really gotta focus on school. I need to know that I can do this on my own, you know? Make everything work without any help. That’s all. So that’s what I’m gonna do.”

**

It starts to feel a little like the tightrope he’s walking is about the diameter of a shoestring and strung between two crumbling cliff walls in the middle of a hurricane.

The late nights spent crime-fighting and working on suit modifications and repairs are catching up with him, and his classwork starts to suffer for it. He turns in assignments late or not at all, misses classes and club meetings, tells a hundred lies to his professors when they pull him aside to express their concern for his declining performance.

He falls asleep once while tinkering with his web fluid formula again during a late-night visit to Dr. Connors’ lab and accidentally destroys the table he was working at when the concoction boils over and then congeals into a substance as solid as steel. After an hour of panicked, fruitless attempts to remove it, he has no choice but to leave the mess. He spends several days afterward nearly sick with anxiety over its inevitable discovery and the questions that will arise from it. But when he shows up for Dr. Connors’ class, the ruined table is gone and nothing is ever said about it.

The late nights and stress of trying to balance everything are making him sloppy on the crime-fighting front, too. He gets hurt more often and the injuries are worse, which forces him to miss even more class while he recovers. It feels a little like being fifteen again when he was still just learning the ropes and had more misses than successes, only this time he’s alone in a new city and Tony isn’t nearby to clean up his messes. 

He has moments of very real despair late at night in his dorm room while trying to ignore the double vision of a concussion or the agonizing rub of broken ribs while finishing a lab report, where he thinks his quest to prove that he’s capable of doing this whole work-life-superhero balance thing is completely, miserably laughable.

“What the hell happened to you?” Gwen asks one afternoon when Peter slips into their lab twenty-minutes late with a split lip and the beginnings of a shiner starting to darken his eye, the result of a run-in with a gang member who happened to also be a fellow enhanced individual.

“Um...” Peter racks the exhausted static of his brain for an excuse. “Bike accident.”

Gwen frowns at him. “You said the same thing like two weeks ago. You get into a lot of bike accidents lately. Do you even own a bike?”

“Uh, no,” Peter admits. “The bike…ran into me?”

Gwen sighs, shaking her head. She digs a concealer stick out of her backpack and drags him out of the lab and into the bathroom at the end of the hall.

“Just so you know—I’ll kill you myself if we fail this lab because you can’t get your shit together. I’ll bury your body somewhere so deep and so secret that not even Tony Stark with his limitless genius and resources will be able to find it,” she tells him as she gently dabs concealer around his bruised eye. “You have _got_ to get better at this or you’re never gonna make it through the next four years.”

“Get better at what?” Peter asks, his heart thudding fast and hard against his sternum.

But Gwen just sighs again, like she’s annoyed.

“Just _please_ try to finish our lab reports on time,” she begs.

**

To add insult to injury, Peter wakes up the following morning with his eye completely swollen shut to find that there’s another new addition to the digital picture frame—a poorly rendered pixel art gif of Night Monkey twerking while eating a banana.

_WHY is there PORNOGRAPHY on my photo frame??_ he furiously texts to Tony.

_It’s art therapy,_ Tony replies. _It’s healing. I feel very at peace after finishing that._

_you made this???? DISGUSTING im calling pepper_

_Don’t bother. She fully supports my artistic endeavors,_ Tony types back. _It’s really improving my mental health. I feel like a new man._

_ok but what about MY mental health?_ Peter texts.

_idk,_ Tony responds. _go eat a banana and chill or something._

**

Peter gets a kind of indirect revenge in the coming days when someone starts defacing the Iron Man statue that looms over the lawn in front of Kresge Auditorium.

It starts out simply: a senior, hyped up on booze and bravado and the encouragement of his equally trashed friends, climbs up the statue to place a cardboard Burger King crown on its head.

The crown doesn’t last long, knocked down or blown off, but it sets off a kind of chain reaction, with more students scaling the statue to place Burger King crowns on its head. It becomes something of an overnight tradition to leave a cheeseburger at the foot of the statue’s plinth the night before an exam or presentation like an offering to an armored idol, crappy cheeseburgers exchanged in hopes of good grades.

An email is eventually sent around to the student body from the official MIT Grounds Services account requesting that students refrain from climbing or vandalizing the statue, and threatening violators with extensive fines and possible suspension.

The Burger King crowns and cheeseburgers trickle to a stop. And then the vandalism escalates.

Students headed to their early morning classes witness it first—someone has stuck giant googly eyes and an enormous fuzzy handlebar mustache to the statue’s face. A picture of the vandalized statue is rapidly upvoted to Reddit’s front page. Copycats instantly pop up, with googly eyes and handlebar mustaches appearing on nearly every Iron Man poster and mural across campus. Another stern email is sent out from the MIT Grounds Services account, and the fever briefly cools.

Until a week later, when someone stitches a pair of seventies-style quad-baring jogging shorts onto the statue. The vandal also rigs a solar-powered drone with a speaker to hover just out of reach above the statue. The drone blares the Bee Gees’ “Stayin’ Alive” on repeat for hours on end. Students gather for a kind of impromptu tribute disco dance on the lawn around the statue.

Peter stops to take a video of the festivities on his way to class, sending it to Tony.

_Good morning it’s a new day and they’re toppling idols here at MIT,_ he texts. 

_Thank you,_ Tony types back. _This video has bolstered my faith in our country’s youth. You all are killing it out there. Keep up the good work._

“Weren’t you and Harry testing solar-powered drones the other day?” Peter asks Gwen when he sees her later in their chemistry lab.

“Yeah, for robotics club,” Gwen says stoically, typing away at her laptop. But she glances up at him, the corner of her mouth curling into a brief, tiny smirk.

**

Peter fails his next calculus exam.

It’s the first exam he’s failed since his freshman year of high school, when he’d turned in a blank test in his history class two weeks after Ben had died.

“How did _you_ manage to fail a calculus exam?” Harry asks. “You could probably teach the class."

“I didn’t finish it,” Peter mumbles, slouching at his desk, his cheek pressed into the open pages of his chemistry textbook. He’s nearing twenty hours without sleep, on top of everything else. He wants to crawl into bed and stay there for a hundred years.

“You didn’t finish it?”

“I showed up an hour late.”

“An _hour?_” Harry repeats, eyebrows raised. “Why?”

“I got sick,” Peter lies, shrugging.

What he’d actually been doing was chasing down a guy who’d abducted his kids from his ex-wife in the midst of a custody dispute and driven off with them. The kids had cried, terrified, when Peter had tried to coax them out of the car while the cops arrested their father, who’d screamed obscenities and abuse at Peter and the police and the crowd of bystanders who’d gathered to watch this scene of misery unfold.

The whole thing left a bad taste in his mouth, and the failing grade is like a rotten cherry on top. He tells himself that the grade isn’t important, that compared to what those poor kids went through it’s small and meaningless. Hates himself for still caring. 

“Do you ever like, try to do what you think is the right thing, and then when you do it, it feels—wrong?” he asks. “Like everything you do is just—so fucked, no matter what?”

“That was basically my entire childhood growing up with my dad,” Harry replies. He leans over, rubbing Peter’s back. “But, hey—it’s just a calculus exam, man. You okay?”

Peter drags himself upright. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You’re a bad liar,” Harry says. “It’s fucking depressing, just looking at you right now. What will cheer you up? You wanna fake your death and move to the Bahamas under a new identity, leave this bullshit behind? ‘Cause I could probably arrange that for you.”

“Is it bad that I actually find that super tempting?”

“A little,” Harry says. “Seriously—tell me what I can do.”

Peter looks over at him. He feels loopy from sleep deprivation, and maybe that’s why he says it. “Would it be too weird if I asked you to just like...hug me and say something nice to me?”

“Mm, yeah, a little weird, but I’ll still do it if it makes you feel better,” Harry says, hopping down from the bed.

He comes up behind Peter’s chair and leans down, wrapping his arms around Peter’s chest and resting his chin on Peter’s shoulder.

“What do you want me to say?” he asks, his breath warm against the side of Peter’s neck.

“Just...you know, something nice,” Peter murmurs distractedly, trying to ignore how his heart is now beating embarrassingly fast.

“Okay, let’s see…” Harry is quiet for a moment, like he’s thinking, then he says, “Your ears stick out. All your favorite movies suck. You stutter when you’re nervous.”

“I said _nice_ things.”

“These are nice things,” Harry insists. “These are all things I like about you.”

“Oh,” Peter says, feeling like he’s swallowed something very warm. “Okay.”

“Okay. Where was I? You wear the dorkiest t-shirts. You talk like a bus driver.”

“I do _not,_” Peter protests, laughing now.

“Yeah, you kinda do. It’s okay, it’s part of your charm. It’s cute.”

“_Cute?_”

“Yeah, cute. Now shut up, I’m on a roll here. You have trash taste in sports teams. You get way too excited when you talk about science,” Harry continues, before pausing a moment to give Peter a little squeeze. “Is this working? Is this doing it for you?”

“Yeah, it’s working,” Peter says, smiling.

**

Dr. Connors hosts a movie night in the little study room next to their lab right before Thanksgiving break, a reward for all their hard work that semester.

The movie is one Peter hasn’t seen before, released during the Blip. It’s one of those “based on a true story” movies, about the Avengers’ failed stand against Thanos. The actor who plays Tony Stark does a lot of cheesy snarky quipping punctuated by moments of tortured, wet-eyed gazing-into-the-distance. He and movie-Captain America—wooden, square-jawed, and also doing a lot of of gazing-into-the-distance, but stoically—spend much of the movie talking about each other to the secondary cast in a manner that comes across as unintentionally homoerotic.

There’s a movie-Spider-Man, too, in a small role. He’s played by a tall, blonde beefcake actor in his late-twenties that Peter has never seen in any other acting role. Movie-Spider-Man does a lot of snarky quipping, too, and is hot-headed and a little stupid. The actor has chosen to give him a very bad, very exaggerated generic New York accent that nonetheless makes Peter a little self-conscious. They’ve given movie-Spider-Man an equally movie-star-good-looking girlfriend in the film—a voluptuous, pouty redhead who does very little actual acting in the movie, other than looking beautifully sad and busty.

The movie is neither good nor very factually accurate, but Peter is only half-paying attention to it now, because Harry, lounging in a battered bean bag chair next to him at the back of the room, has reached over in the darkness to touch the very tips of his fingers to the the bare skin on the inside of Peter’s arm, near his wrist.

Peter goes very still, eyes fixed on the projector screen in front of him, where movie-Dr. Strange has stopped his snarky quipping in order to go on a long, dull expository monologue about the Infinity Stones while movie-Bruce Banner and movie-Tony listen on, looking frazzled and soulfully tortured, respectively. 

Peter could never make much sense of what the real Dr. Strange was talking about, and he’s not doing much better following movie-Dr. Strange, either. He’s too distracted by the feeling of Harry’s fingers against his wrist—featherlight at first, and then, when Peter doesn’t move away, pressing firmer.

Peter sits still and keeps his eyes on the surreal absurdist nightmare unfolding in front of him on the projector screen, but his heart is racing so fast and beating so hard that he wonders if Harry can feel it in the pulse point in his wrist.

They sit like this for several more minutes, while movie-Tony snarks at CGI aliens, and then Harry slowly, slowly walks his fingers up Peter’s wrist and across his palm, finally sliding his fingers into the spaces between Peter’s and pressing their palms together just as movie-Spider-Man is being beamed up to the CGI spaceship, quipping all the way.

Peter doesn’t move, barely even breathes, keeps his eyes trained on the screen. Movie-Spider-Man and movie-Tony are arguing on board the spaceship. Movie-Spider-Man is brash, arrogant. Movie-Tony is angry. They don’t seem to like each other very much. Movie-Spider-Man makes a dramatic speech about responsibility and being a hero that Peter thinks is intended to sound noble but sounds corny and hollow instead.

He can’t remember what he’d really said to Tony on that spaceship. He doesn’t actually remember very much at all from that day and the events that followed after he’d returned from Titan—just the feeling of fear and adrenaline, so strong he could taste it. The only thing from their fight against Thanos that he really remembers clearly is what happened immediately after the battle ended, when he’d found Tony slumped against the wreckage of the Avengers’ facility, the gauntlet still smoking around his arm. The look in Tony’s eyes—vacant, like he was already gone—is etched in Peter’s mind, crystalline. 

Peter tears his eyes away from the screen, squeezing them shut. He can feel tears burning behind his eyelids and he swallows hard a few times, trying to regain his composure, because if this stupid movie makes him cry he’ll never ever, ever forgive himself. 

Harry squeezes his hand, and Peter opens his eyes. He can see Harry looking at him in the periphery of his vision, the light from the projector screen flickering on the planes of his face. 

Harry squeezes his hand again, and this time Peter turns his head to look directly at him. As soon as he does, Harry leans towards him. 

For a breathless, terrifying second, Peter thinks Harry is going to kiss him, but then Harry tilts slightly to the side and leans in even closer, cheek to cheek with Peter.

“This movie is shit,” he murmurs in Peter’s ear. “Where is the cinematic verisimilitude? Every New Yorker knows the _real_ Spider-Man is a skinny little twink.”

Peter startles, and then cracks up. He stuffs his sleeve into his mouth to stifle his helpless laughter, silently shaking with it until tears are running down his cheeks.

**

Peter brings the red-and-blue suit home with him during Thanksgiving break. He goes out and swings around the busiest parts of the city for a few hours every day to let everyone know that rumors of Spider-Man’s demise have been greatly exaggerated. He even makes a brief appearance during the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, flipping over the tops of the balloons while the crowd below erupts in cheers.

(He goes out for a few hours every night, as well, to places Karen indicates have experienced increased crime in his absence, just to remind the city’s less savory inhabitants that Spider-Man’s still alive and kicking, too.)

Peter goes home to his and May’s apartment after these outings with bruised knuckles and a sense of relief and rightness. His little bedroom feels almost palatial after months sleeping in his postage stamp-sized dorm room, and the bone-dry turkey and watery mashed potatoes May serves for Thanksgiving dinner might be the best thing he’s ever eaten.

On Saturday he makes his way over to Tony’s Midtown penthouse. He’d spent so much time there before the Blip, and yet it still feels a little funny now, a little foreign. The furniture’s been moved around, the decor in the guest bedroom where he’s slept so many nights is different. There are more pictures hanging on the walls and scattered artfully across shelves and bookcases, photographs of Pepper and Tony’s wedding, their anniversary dinners, Morgan’s baby pictures. Peter will inspect them sometimes, examining them the same way he does old news articles and media from the time of the Blip, trying to reconcile this reality with the one he knew, like if he just looks at them long enough he can form some kind of false memory, incorporate this missing time into himself.

He and Tony spend the afternoon down in the garage tinkering together, sitting side-by-side at the workbench like they always do. Peter spends a lot of time just smelling the air, breathing in the familiar scents of motor oil and ozone. It reminds him almost of the way it used to be before the universe was shattered and remade—as long as he doesn’t look directly at Tony, at the metallic gleam of his prosthetic arm and the faint webbing of scarring on the side of his face, and the silver threaded thick through his hair, even thicker than it had been when Peter had last seen him a few months ago. It makes Peter feel something that he can’t put a name to—a kind of homesickness, maybe, a longing for a place that doesn’t exist anymore.

“You okay?” Tony asks eventually, fiddling with wires. “You’re not talking my ear off like usual.”

“I’m good. Just tired, I guess,” Peter says. “Feels kinda weird being back home, too. Your hair has gotten really grey while I was gone.”

Tony runs a hand through his hair, giving Peter a rueful smile. “I’m getting old. I could always dye it if you don’t like it.”

“No, I like it. It just looks different, is all. I guess I’m still getting used to it,” Peter says. “But it looks good. People at school like it. We watched the UN speech you gave last month live in my Western Civ class. Afterwards, everyone was saying that you’re a silver fox now. A DILF. Makes me wanna puke.”

Tony grins at him, pinching Peter’s cheek with metal fingers. 

“Does it ever hurt?” Peter blurts out. “Do you get like...like phantom pains, or...”

He trails off, his chest tight.

Tony turns his prosthetic arm over, curling and straightening the fingers, his expression contemplative.

“Sometimes,” he says. “But it’s not bad. I’ve felt a hell of lot worse.”

He looks back at Peter, his eyes soft. “Hey—let’s go upstairs and see what the girls are doing. Get something to eat. What do you think, kid?” 

After dinner, they all gather in the living room and watch a movie Morgan picks out, something pink and bubbly.

Peter stretches out on the couch, half his attention on the movie and half of it on his phone, where he repeatedly types and then deletes a text message to MJ asking if she wants to hang out. 

Unable to make up his mind, he checks her Instagram for the first time in weeks after promising himself he wouldn’t look at it, feeling a little like a creep. 

The most recent picture posted is of her and Brad in front of a building on NYU’s campus, posted four hours ago—MJ smirking and casually flipping the bird, Brad handsome and smiling, his arm around her waist. They’re leaning their heads together, and the wind has blown her hair over his shoulder.

Peter deletes the message again and texts Harry instead.

Harry sends him an address a second later.

“I’m gonna go out,” Peter tells Tony. “Can I borrow a sweater? That green one with the buttons on the collar?”

“Yeah, sure. It’s in my closet, bottom shelf at the back,” Tony says, looking up from whatever it is he’s doing on his tablet. “Got a hot date tonight?”

“No. Just seeing a friend from school,” Peter says. “I think I’ll probably stay over there tonight, but I’ll stop by here tomorrow before I head back up to Cambridge. Say goodbye to you guys.”

“Oh, alright,” Tony says, taking off his reading glasses. “There’s a grey button down hanging in the closet. Wear that with the sweater.”

“Okay, thanks,” Peter says. “A belt?”

“Pick a brown one.” Tony squints at him. “You sure this isn’t a date? Do we need to have the talk? You know, condoms, enthusiastic consent, what goes where—all that jazz?”

“I’d rather die again,” Peter says, making a swift exit.

**

Being inside the Osborns’ penthouse feels a little like being inside a massive jewelry box, Peter thinks—all crystal and oiled dark stone and gleaming mirrored surfaces, the light splintering and refracting back and forth across them.

Peter keeps his hands folded together in his lap, half afraid to breathe in case he accidentally smudges something. He’s no stranger to being inside the homes of the ultra-wealthy, having spent time in a good number of Tony’s many properties by this point, but all of Tony’s residences have a lived-in quality that this place lacks. There is always some mess on the coffee table, or cups left in the sink, or, now, toys strewn across the floor—signs that these places actually house living, breathing people within their walls.

There’s none of that here, not a single thing out of place—except for Peter, who is feeling very small and shabby even while wearing Tony’s nice sweater. 

He’s been sitting for nearly an hour on a buttery sleek leather sofa that probably costs more than several months of May’s wages while Harry’s father interviews him. Or at least, that’s a little what it feels like to Peter, who has answered a lot of questions about what he’s studying now, and what he thinks he’d like to major in, and where he would like to see himself in five years time. Norman Osborn looks like an older version of his son—tall and lean and handsome, with the same easy confidence. He smiles a lot and makes direct eye-contact and listens very attentively to everything Peter has to say, which is simultaneously nice and slightly unnerving.

Peter glances past him at one point to look at Harry, who is seated on the adjacent sofa and has been largely silent and ignored this whole time. Harry smiles at Peter and gives him a thumbs up, then unfolds his fingers into the shape of a gun and points it at his temple. Peter looks away, struggling to keep a straight face as Mr. Osborn asks him about his internship at SI again.

It’s another half-hour or so before they’re freed, Mr. Osborn shaking Peter’s hand with a firm grip before he departs to attend to some business, leaving Peter and Harry alone in the apartment. 

Liberated, they make their way up to the rooftop terrace and stand beside the low stone perimeter wall, looking out across the glittering city skyline. It’s bitingly cold up there with the wind, but Peter finds he doesn’t mind it.

“You look like an accountant in that sweater. I’ve never seen you dressed up like that,” Harry tells Peter, sliding a joint out of his coat pocket.

Peter looks down at himself. “I borrowed it.”

“You borrowed it? Just to come over here?” Harry smiles as he lights the joint up. “Jesus, you’re fucking precious.” His smile turns sly, teasing. “Did you dress up like that for me?”

“I dressed like this in case your dad was here, actually,” Peter says, returning the smile a little sheepishly. “First impressions and all that.”

“Well, it worked.” Harry says more seriously, taking a pull off the joint. “Sorry about all that, by the way. He doesn’t usually interrogate my friends like that, but I mentioned that you’d interned for Stark, and that got him interested. But he likes you, otherwise he wouldn’t have bothered talking to you for that long. He was impressed.”

“Is that good or bad?” Peter asks.

Harry shrugs, blowing out a pungent cloud of smoke. “I dunno, guess it depends—you want to work for Oscorp after you graduate?”

“I don’t know what I want to do after I graduate,” Peter says. “I think my life would be a lot easier if I did.”

“Grass is always greener on the other side, man,” Harry says, taking another hard drag on the joint. “My life’s been mapped out since birth, and the guy pulling the strings doesn’t really give a shit about my thoughts on the matter.”

He looks over at Peter, smiling. “But what the fuck are you worried about? You’re insanely smart and you have all this potential—you’re gonna be like the next Tony Stark.”

“Can we maybe just...not talk about Tony Stark?” Peter asks. “Please.”

Harry pretends to be confused. “Tony who? Never heard of him.” He looks over at Peter and smiles. “It was kind of nice, actually.”

“What?”

“Listening to you talk about yourself for that long. I mean, I know it was under duress, but...I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk that much about yourself before,” Harry says. “Usually if someone starts asking you questions about yourself, you do this thing where you like, shut down, or you lie.”

“I don’t,” Peter says immediately.

Harry laughs. “You just did, man. You’re a shit liar, Pete. The worst.”

Peter looks away.“ I know. I know. I just—I don’t like to lie. I don’t do it to—to intentionally hurt people, or mislead them or whatever. It’s, uh...it’s a safety thing.”

“What, are you in gang or something?”

Peter grimaces. “Sort of?”

Harry snorts, stubbing out the joint on the top of the wall. “Hey, that’s okay. I’m not gonna ask you to unpack all your dark secrets and parade your trauma around for me. It’s cool. We’re cool.”

“Okay. Okay—good. I’m sorry, I’m—that’s good.” Peter pauses a moment, wetting his lips with his tongue as he fiddles with a non-existent thread on one of the sweater’s cuffs. “You asked me one time about Gwen. If she and I had—a thing. I thought you asked me that because you wanted to ask her out or something.”

Harry laughs again, shaking his head. “Can you fucking imagine that? She probably wouldn’t even dignify me with an answer. She’d just turn around and walk out. God, she’s great. Not really my type, though. Might be part of why my dad’s eternally disappointed in me, if you get my drift.”

“Oh. Okay. So in Dr. Connors’ class? When we watched the movie?” Peter continues, his heart beating so fast now. “And you held my hand. Why’d you do that?”

Harry leans against the wall and smiles at him, shrugging. “‘Cause I wanted to. ‘Cause I was hoping maybe you wanted to, too. It’s like you said—you like what you like. And I really like you, Pete. I really, really do.”

“Okay. Cool. I just wanted to be sure. I think I do, too. Like you, I mean,” Peter says.

Harry straightens up a little, that look of tentative hope returning to his face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Peter says, nodding. He clears his throat. “I, um. I told my folks I was gonna stay over here tonight. I mean, if that’s okay...”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course,” Harry says. “Absolutely. We have a guest room, or—”

Peter kisses him. It’s a little awkward, because Harry’s so much taller and he’s still leaning a bit on the top of the wall, making the angle weird. But it must not matter too much, because when they part Harry is smiling.

“Or you could stay in my room,” Harry continues, sounding a bit out of breath. “With me. If you want. No pressure.”

“Okay,” Peter says.

Harry’s smile gets even brighter, his expression going from hopeful to pleased. “Okay."

**

“You seem happy and relaxed,” Gwen says suspiciously, walking arm-in-arm with Peter across campus on their first day back from the break. “Did you have a good Thanksgiving?”

“Yeah, it was okay. Didn’t get food poisoning from my aunt’s cooking this year, which is great. Slept in. Worked on some projects,” Peter replies. “I went to Harry’s place and met his dad.”

“Ugh, was it horrible?”

“Mm, no, not horrible. He was...nice-ish. To me, at least. He only stuck around for a bit, so it wasn’t bad. It was pretty good, actually,” Peter says. “_Really_ good.”

Gwen gives him a sharp look, narrowing her eyes.

“Oh my god—it finally happened, didn’t it?” she says, sighing.

“What?” Peter asks, blinking.

“You and Harry, you dope. I’m officially relegated to being a third wheel.” Gwen sighs again. “It was only a matter of time, I guess. I’ve had to watch you two idiots dance around each other like all semester long.”

“You’re not a third wheel,” Peter insists. “You’re...my right hand woman.”

“Your right hand woman? I don’t think so,” Gwen says, sniffing as she tightens her grip on his arm and walks a little faster, forcing Peter to keep up with her. “If anything, _you_ are _my_ right hand man. And not even a very good one at that. Got it?”

“Got it,” Peter agrees, letting her tug him along.

**

MJ texts Peter again later that afternoon while he’s in calculus class.

_the revolution has spread to columbia,_ the message reads. She’s attached a photo of a lamp post, where someone has stuck a vinyl sticker of a cartoony Iron Man wearing sparkly gold hot pants and roller-skates.

Peter forwards it to Tony.

_Don’t give me ideas,_ Tony types back. _You’ll regret it._

**

The afterglow from the holiday break doesn’t last long as the semester lurches into its final stretch and their professors seem determined to load as much material into these final weeks as possible.

“I’m going to kill myself if I have to look at this for one more second,” Harry announces, dramatically throwing his physics textbook off of Peter’s bed.

“We’ve been studying for like barely half-an-hour,” Peter says without looking up, scribbling calculus formulas he needs to memorize for his next exam across his notebook.

“Jesus, really? It feels like forever. I can’t take this any longer,” Harry moans. “Let’s go out. I need a break.”

“Already?”

“Yeah. I need some air. Or let’s study in the library. I can’t focus when I’m alone in a room with you anymore.”

Peter gives him an incredulous look. “We’ve been studying alone together for months just fine.”

“Yeah, but that was before I knew you had perfectly chiseled abs under those oversized hoodies you wear,” Harry explains, taking a joint out of his pocket and lighting it up. “You’ve kinda ruined my life. I’m very distracted all the time now, and it’s all your fault. I have an addictive personality, you know. You could have warned me. Who expects a skinny little nerd like you to be so cut?”

Peter snorts. “Sorry? I think your real problem is that you smoke pot twenty-four-seven. Might be easier to focus if you were to occasionally put the joint down.”

“This is the source of my academic success,” Harry says, holding the joint up reverently. “You and Gwennie are always stressed out, and when you’re stressed out you can’t reach your full potential. Me? Cool as a cucumber. Chill. Stone cold under pressure. And who among us has the highest GPA? That’s right—your boy Harry.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well, I’m glad you have it all figured out. I really am.”

“Should be you, you know,” Harry tells him. “You’re the one with all the natural-born smarts. My dad talked to you for an hour, and now he won’t shut up about you and your big beautiful brain and sweet, sweet potential just waiting to be exploited by some lucky bio-tech company. You just need to get your shit together. Stop missing class. Turn your assignments in on time.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that from like ten different people this week alone,” Peter says, sighing. “Please don’t harass me about it, too. I’m doing my best, okay?”

“I don’t know what you’re doing,” Harry says, blowing out a stream of smoke. “You’re very mysterious. You disappear a lot. You could be a serial killer for all I know.”

“I’m not a serial killer,” Peter says, hunching his shoulders.

“Well, you wouldn’t tell anyone if you were, would you?” Harry reasons. He chews the end of the joint thoughtfully, then adds, “The T.A. in our Western Civ class thinks you’re in a fight club.”

“That’s closer,” Peter mutters, scribbling more formulas.

“You just need to put the same energy and discipline into your other classes that you do into Dr. Connors’ class,” Harry says. “You’re doing great in there. I don’t get what’s so different about that one.”

“I have…a personal investment in that class,” Peter explains vaguely.

“Well, I hate to break it to you, then, but this might be the end of the line for that project,” Harry says, taking a lazy drag off the joint.

Peter’s head whips up to look at him. “What do you mean?”

Harry shrugs. “Dr. Connors doesn’t have the funding. My dad told me the other day—after I got accepted to MIT, he bought his way onto some committee here, so he’s in the know. He can’t resist meddling in my life, I guess. Anyway, one of Dr. Connors’ grad students filed an ethics complaint in regards to his research—I dunno about what, so don’t ask—but long story short, the committee started an investigation, and until it’s over everything is tied up. Knowing how the bureaucracy works at a big university like this, it could be tied up for a looooong ass time.”

Peter shakes his head, crushed. “What about our class?”

Harry shrugs again. “This close to the end of the semester? They’ll probably just let us wrap it up. Turn in our final project and get a grade. Kinda blows, though—I was really planning on riding this project into a top grad program. All the hard work for nothing.”

“Yeah,” Peter agrees, putting his pencil down and pressing his hands against his face. He gives himself exactly one minute to be disappointed, counting down the seconds in his head, and then he makes himself pick his pencil back up again, sighing as he turns to the next page of his textbook.

“So are you secretly doing hours of CrossFit training every night?” Harry continues after a few minutes of silence. “Or are you really some kind of mutant Tony Stark created in one of his labs?”

Peter sighs. “I thought we agreed we wouldn’t talk about Tony Stark.”

“Right. My bad.”

Peter writes down more formulas, working quietly for another couple of minutes, then says, “It was an Oscorp lab, actually.”

Harry starts laughing, choking on smoke. “Well, fuck. I’m gonna have to talk my dad into giving those workers a raise. They deserve it.”

**

Peter misses another exam.

This time, he misses it because he’s crawling on his hands and knees through an apartment in a burning building, trying not to inhale too much of the smoke that hangs as thick as cloth in the air as he searches the place for a five-year-old girl.

He’s really missing Karen right now, and his helpful little droney, certain that this search-and-rescue mission would be a lot easier and get done a lot quicker with both of them around to help. Being inside of burning buildings in danger of imminent collapse ranks very high on his list of things he rather not be doing.

He can feel hot little cinders dropping onto his shoulders from overhead and he picks up the pace, checking behind furniture and inside of the kitchen cabinets, where he’s found scared little kids hiding from house fires before.

He eventually finds the girl hiding in the back of the closet in her older sister’s bedroom. He squats down in the doorframe, holding out a hand to her while she looks back at him with wide, frightened eyes.

“Hey—hey, there,” he says, pitching his voice higher and brighter. “You gotta come with me, okay? I’m gonna get you out of here. Your mom and dad and sister are all waiting outside.”

He reaches for her, and she instantly shrinks back. He stops, his hand hovering in the space between them.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Peter assures her. “I’m here to help. I’m one of the good guys.”

The girl looks him over in his black stealth suit, her eyes shining as she hugs herself. 

“You don’t look like a good guy,” she says. “You look like a ninja.”

Overhead, the ceiling groans ominously. Peter lets out a shaky breath, his heart hammering in his chest.

“I know. It is kinda a ninja suit, isn’t it? But I _promise_ I’m a good guy.”

He reaches for her again, but she pulls even further away, starting to cry.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Peter says quickly. “It’s the mask, right? Here—”

He reaches up and pulls the mask off, smiling at her. “Do I still look like a bad guy now?”

The girl hesitates, and then shakes her head.

“See? It’s okay,” Peter says, still smiling as he scoots closer. “Hey—you know Spider-Man?”

The girl stops crying, nodding her head.

“Yeah, he’s a good buddy of mine,” Peter says, slipping his hands under her arms and lifting her up. “Would a bad guy be friends with Spider-Man?”

“No.” The girl shakes her head, clinging to him now as he shuffles across the room in an awkward crouch. 

“That’s right. He wouldn’t be friends with a bad guy,” Peter says, turning her away and shielding her with his body as he breaks the bedroom’s window with his elbow. “So you won’t be scared now if I put this mask back on before we go outside, right?”

“Okay,” the girl says, squeezing him around the neck as he pulls the mask back on and then climbs through the window with her.

“We’re just gonna do a little hop over to that building across the street. It looks far, but it’s really not. It’s gonna be easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy. Close your eyes and hang on tight, okay?” Peter tells her. “You’re being really brave. I’m gonna tell my pal Spider-Man all about you next time I see him. He’ll be really impressed. How does that sound?”

“Good,” the girl says, smiling now as she closes her eyes and clutches Peter even tighter.

She doesn’t make a sound when he leaps across the street to the building on the other side, which does in fact impress him given how many full-grown adults he’s had shriek into his ear when he’s pulled this stunt before.

He makes a swift descent and stays only long enough to hand the girl over to her weeping family and the waiting firefighters. Then he’s swinging back to campus.

He gets back too late to even bother trying to make it to the exam. He showers to get the soot off his skin, coughing up gobs of black phlegm and spitting it down the drain. He washes his hair three times in an ineffectual attempt to get the lingering smoke smell out of it, then goes back to his dorm room.

He sits at his desk, cataloguing the tender blisters that are starting to form along his shoulders and the ache in his legs from crouching for so long and the bone-deep exhaustion that seems to always haunt him these days.

He has a hundred pages of reading to get through, and an essay to write, and a lab report due in two days, on top of all his half-completed late assignments still waiting to be finished. 

He opens his laptop and pulls up the encrypted files that contain all the schematics for his suits instead, and starts making notes and adjustments, working late into the night until he can’t fight off sleep any longer.

**

There’s another new picture circulating on the digital frame.

Peter isn’t sure how long it’s been there, but it catches his eye very late one night while he’s trying to bullshit his way through an essay for his English class that’s due in the morning.

It’s different from the other pictures, in that in this one Tony isn’t posing for some absurd tableau. He’s smiling—broad, genuine, the corners of his eyes crinkling behind violet-colored shades. Helen Cho hasn’t finished working her medical magic yet, and the side of his face is still livid with heavy scarring. He’s wearing an MIT baseball cap and a plain t-shirt under a jacket. One of the jacket’s arms is pinned up, empty, not yet filled out with the prosthesis Tony would build in the coming months. His remaining arm is wrapped around Peter’s shoulders. Peter’s smiling, too, a little tentatively, looking at Tony rather than at the camera, like he can’t quite believe Tony is there beside him.

The picture was taken on MIT’s campus mere weeks after Tony had been released from the hospital to continue his convalescence at home, where he’d dutifully rested for three days before becoming restless and obnoxious. Peter was in the middle of his whirlwind senior year of high school, and had just received his acceptance letter to MIT. He had barely even acknowledged the letter, too overwhelmed with trying to assimilate back into a world that had moved five years into the future without him. But Tony had latched onto it, insisting on taking him to visit the campus.

Pepper had thought it was a bad idea. Peter had agreed it was a bad idea. It was too much, too soon. But Tony had been insistent, fixated as only Tony could fixate on something.

“I’ve had about a hundred second chances now, but I’m never going to get those five years back,” he had pronounced, stubborn and final, and they’d reluctantly yielded.

Tony and Peter had strolled around campus, past half-painted larger-than-life murals and posters bearing Tony’s likeness, and buildings recently rechristened in his honor. Tony had held onto Peter’s arm for support while they walked, leaning his weight on him, and as they had wandered in the shadow of a newly erected statue with the words THE INVINCIBLE IRON MAN boldly etched into its plinth, Peter had thought Tony had felt small and fragile and so, so human.

**

The remainder of the semester passes in a flurry of classes and papers and crime-fighting, and then finals are looming perilously close.

On a relatively quiet Friday night, Peter takes a break from his studies for a stealthy lab run to make another tweak to his web fluid formula, hoping to finish it successfully and stock up before the real chaos and carnage of final exam prep starts. 

Breaking into Dr. Connors’ lab has become almost routine at this point, and perhaps that’s why he doesn’t notice until the very last second that he’s not alone in the usually deserted building.

Peter is pulling out a jar of silica gel from the chemicals cabinet when the hair on his arms stands on end. A second later, he hears the soft sound of approaching footsteps from down the hall.

He sucks in a startled breath and shoves the jar back into the cabinet, then ducks down under one of the workbenches right as a shadow appears in the crack under the closed door.

Peter crouches under the table, frozen, holding his breath as the door opens and Dr. Connors steps through. He’s carrying something on a small metal tray and seems too preoccupied with whatever it is to notice the equipment Peter has set out already.

Peter watches as Dr. Connors sets down the tray on a table, and then takes out a key and unlocks the freezer at the front of the lab. He pulls out one of the vials inside the freezer and reaches for the tray, which Peter now sees contains several syringes.

Dr. Connors fills one of the syringes with the contents of the vial before returning it to the freezer and re-locking it. He sits down at the table with his back to Peter, rolling up the sleeve covering his intact arm.

Peter watches, his heart racing. He realizes that he’s witnessing something that he shouldn’t, and he can’t decide if he should leave, locked in place with dread and indecision. 

Dr. Connors slides the syringe’s needle into his arm, slowly depressing the plunger, and the sight finally jolts Peter loose. 

He carefully slips out from under the workbench, creeping silently towards a rolling cart full of beakers standing further along the wall towards the door. He reaches it, crawling around behind it and stopping there for a moment, trying to calm his rapid breathing while he looks towards the lab’s door, wondering how he can possibly open it without drawing Dr. Connors’ attention. 

He throws a glance back towards his professor. Dr. Connors is holding another syringe, still intently focused on his task. Peter lets out a slow, shaky breath, eases himself away from the cart—then freezes once more as Dr. Connors suddenly lifts his head, his back straightening.

There is an impossibly long moment where neither of them move, as if time has stood still, before Dr. Connors carefully sets the syringe aside.

“I know you’re here,” he calls out calmly. “No sense hiding. Come on out.”

He waits a beat, and then adds, “Peter.”

Peter jumps, his elbow knocking into the rolling cart and rattling the glass beakers sitting on it. 

Dr. Connors turns on the stool towards the noise, the corners of his mouth curling into a smile. “There you are. Come out. I won’t bite, I promise.”

The assurance does little to calm Peter’s racing heart but he drags himself up to stand and stumbles forward a few steps anyway. 

“I’m so sorry,” he says in a rush. “I’m sorry, I was—I was just—”

“Working on your medical adhesive,” Dr. Connors interjects. 

Peter blinks at him, open-mouthed. Dr. Connors smiles—patient, kind.

“You told me you had been trying to get a patent for a medical adhesive, before the Blip,” Dr. Connors reminds him. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice the particular chemicals that have been going missing all semester long and put two-and-two together? I have a doctorate in biochemical engineering, after all. And you left a real mess here once, trying to recreate it. I had to throw the whole table out in a dumpster across campus to cover your tracks.”

Peter wets his lips, finding his voice. “I—yeah. Sorry. I fell asleep.”

“That’s alright. We all have our lab disaster stories—broken a few beakers, singed a few eyebrows, lost a limb or two,” Dr. Connors says with a little laugh, holding his prosthetic arm up and clinking the prongs of the pincer together, before his expression turns solemn. “What’s _not_ alright is trespassing on university property and stealing. These are extremely serious offenses. You understand that you could be expelled, correct?”

Peter feels his heart drop through his feet. “Dr. Connors...I—”

“But sometimes,” Dr. Connors interrupts again, “science has to go a little rogue to make true progress, right? So much forward momentum gets lost in administrative red tape, grinding to a halt waiting for funding and resources and ethics boards. We occasionally have to get a little bold in the face of obstacles, for the greater good. Do you agree?”

Peter swallows, glancing past him at the syringes lying on the table. “I…maybe. Yeah.”

Dr. Connors nods. “That’s what I thought. You’re the most brilliant student I’ve ever had the pleasure of teaching, Mr. Parker. Your work has been invaluable to our mission’s progress, and you’re only just starting out. You have so much to give to the world—you’re already giving so much. I’d hate to see you expelled because of your…” he drops his voice lower, “…extracurricular activities. So let’s keep all of this our little secret, alright? Other people might not be so understanding—the dean, the administrators. Your friends. Just imagine if the media got wind of it. There would be quite a scandal.” 

Peter feels cold and shaky all over, like he has to throw up. His lungs won’t seem to cooperate, so instead of saying anything he just gives a jerky nod of his head.

Dr. Connors stands up and closes the space between them. He puts a heavy hand on Peter’s shoulder, squeezing. 

“Best head back to your dorm and get on with studying,” he says, smiling kindly once more. “Finals are right around the corner.”

“Yeah, good idea,” Peter mumbles, stepping around him and walking mechanically towards the exit. 

“Peter,” Dr. Connors calls when Peter has reached the door. 

Peter forces himself to stop and turn to look at him. Dr. Connors smiles again, but there’s something cold and hard in his eyes now.

“Don’t forget,” he says, tapping a single finger against his lips. “I won’t."

Peter nods once more, and then slips as quick as he can through the door, shutting it tightly behind him.

As soon as he’s outside the building, he bolts, racing full-speed across campus, not caring if anyone sees him.

**

He slows down as he nears his residence hall, making himself walk and catch his breath. He’s glad that he does because when he reaches the building, Harry’s waiting near the entrance.

“Hey,” Harry says with a smile when he spies Peter approaching. “Dude, where have you been? Did you forget we were going to study tonight? I’ve been freezing my ass off out here waiting for you.”

“Oh…no. Sorry. I—got held up, um, at the library,” Peter says, still slightly out of breath.

“Yeah?” Harry frowns at him. “Hey, are you okay? You look really shaken up or something,” he says, bending to look at Peter more closely, his expression concerned as he reaches for Peter’s face.

Peter pulls back, looking over his shoulder. “I’m fine. I’m good.”

“You know, if you’re gonna lie to me, you could at least look me in the eye while you do it,” Harry says mildly. “Put a little effort into it. Or maybe you could just tell me what’s really been going on.”

Peter flinches, his head jerking back to look at him. “You said you wouldn’t ask.”

“Yeah, I did,” Harry says a little more sharply. “But it would still be really nice to feel like you trusted me enough to tell me without having to be asked. You know, this whole thing works a lot better if it’s a two-way street.”

Peter feels a spark of anger. “Okay, well, it’s always going to be like this, so if you can’t deal with that then maybe we should just—maybe we shouldn’t…”

He stops, unable to get the rest of the words out past the sudden tightness in his throat.

Harry looks startled, then wounded. But he shakes it off a beat later, reaching for Peter again.

“Hey, just forget it,” he says, grasping the collar of Peter’s coat and gently tugging him close. “Let’s just forget it. I don’t care, okay? Look, if I can deal with the fact that you’re a fucking Mets fan, I can deal with anything. Nothing could be worse than that.”

That gets a brief little smile out of Peter. Harry smiles back, rubbing his thumbs along Peter’s jawline.

“Come on. Come back to my dorm with me. My roommate’s staying at his girlfriend’s place all weekend. Let’s just take a break from studying, get a pizza—good pizza, not that shit they serve in the dining halls. My treat,” Harry offers. 

Peter hesitates. His mind is still going over and over the scene in the lab and the terrible implications of it all, and all he wants to do is lock himself in his room and figure out what he needs to do to fix this before something worse happens. 

But Harry is looking at him, his expression open and pleading.

Peter forces himself to relax.

“Okay,” he agrees.

Harry smiles, visibly relieved. He puts an arm around Peter’s shoulders. 

“Everything’s gonna be okay,” he says. “I seriously don’t care, Pete. It doesn’t bother me, really.”

Peter nods. But it feels like some shallow little fissure has opened up between them, and for being such a tiny thing it hurts in a way Peter has never hurt before.

**

Peter barely leaves his dorm room the following week except to go to class, and then he struggles to follow the material his professors are covering, feeling a constant low-level anxiety.

It’s at its worst in Dr. Connors’ class. Dr. Connors treats Peter with the same warmth and kindness he has all semester long, like that night in the lab had just been some kind of fever dream Peter’s brain had cooked up. Peter thinks he should find it comforting; instead, it ramps up his sense of paranoia, like if he so much as breathes wrong the whole illusion of normalcy will come crumbling down. The fear of it is like a constant itch between his shoulder blades, making him twitchy, distracted.

“Can you keep your head in the fucking game,” Gwen snaps at him during one of their last labs together before finals.

Peter startles, almost dropping the beaker he’s holding. He’d been spacing out again, running through half-baked contingency plans in his mind. “Sorry. Shit—I’m sorry.”

Gwen sits back in her chair, pushing her goggles up on top of her head and pressing her hands against her temples. 

“No, I’m sorry,” she says, her voice quavering and her eyes wet. “That was so bitchy, I shouldn’t have said that. I’m so sorry, Peter, I just…”

“Hey,” Peter says tentatively, reaching across the table towards her. 

Gwen shakes her head, standing. “Can you just excuse me for a sec?”

Peter watches her duck out of the room in a rush. He waits a beat, and then follows her out. He glances down the hallway and catches sight of her slipping into the restroom at the far end near the stairwell, and heads after her.

“Gwen?” he calls softly as he cautiously pushes the restroom door open.

“Can you just give me like, one minute? Please,” she replies thickly from inside one of the stalls.

Peter shuts the door and stands in front of it like an awkward sentry. He can hear Gwen crying inside, and he can’t decide if he should leave and give her some more privacy, or if he should stay and make sure no one else walks in on her.

He ends up waiting, until the sound of her crying winds down, and then he pushes the door open again.

Peter finds her in the farthest stall, sitting slumped on the lid of the toilet, still sniffling. He grabs a wad of toilet paper and hands it to her.

Gwen takes it from him, wipes her eyes and blows her nose, then tilts her head up to look at him for a long moment, sighing. 

“I can’t _fucking_ believe I had a breakdown before you,” she finally says.

Peter leans against the stall wall. “If it makes you feel better, I’ve actually had like, five breakdowns already. I was just lucky enough to have them in the privacy of my room in the dead of night.”

Gwen offers him a teary-eyed smile. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Peter confirms. “I’m talking full-on, total mental collapse. And that doesn’t even include the stress-induced nosebleeds I get. I’ve gone through like four sets of sheets. It’s really, really bad. I’m probably going to bleed to death during finals.”

“God, that’s such a relief,” Gwen says, sniffing wetly. “I’m so sorry, you’re my best friend and I don’t want you to actually suffer or anything, but that really makes me feel better. It’s so…_lonely_ sometimes, you know?”

Peter huffs out a little laugh. “Yeah, I do know. I really do.”

Gwen sniffs again. “It’s just—I’m not like you or Harry. I don’t have a trust fund waiting for me, or some rich benefactor who’s gonna bail me out if I fuck up. I had to work my ass off and take out some really scary loans to be here. I’m probably going to be still paying those loans off when I’m ninety-years-old. So failure is literally not an option for me. If I screw this up—that’s it. I’m fucked.”

“But you’re not,” Peter assures her. “You’re not gonna fuck this up.”

“Yeah. It’s okay,” Gwen says, clearing her throat and taking a deep breath, visibly pulling herself together. “It’s okay. I’ll be okay. I’m stressed out right now, is all. Sorry—this stuff probably seems so small and dumb compared to what you’re dealing with.”

Peter’s heart skips a beat. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Gwen says pointedly, her voice pitched soft and low, “that you’re Night Monkey. And Spider-Man. Night Monkey _is_ Spider-Man.”

“I—no,” Peter says, feeling like the world has just abruptly dropped out from under his feet for the second time in a week.

Gwen rolls her eyes. “Yes. Yes, you are. I don’t mean to like, insult you, but it’s really obvious if you just stop and think logically for two seconds. You interned for Tony Stark—Spider-Man’s decked out in Stark tech. You leave New York City to come to school here—Spider-Man vanishes, Night Monkey appears. You go home for Thanksgiving—suddenly Spider-Man’s back. You have all these _bike accidents,_ and I apologize if this is creepy and objectifying, but you are _really_ insanely fit for someone who never goes to the gym and eats like a garbage disposal. Plus, you basically confessed to it that night at the Un-Blippening party. That’s when I connected the dots. I’ve known for most of the semester now.”

Peter stares at her, trying to remember how to form words.

“Does anyone—does Harry know?” he manages to ask.

Gwen shakes her head. “I don’t think so. But Peter—he might be spoiled and have a _huge_ blindspot where you are concerned, but he’s not stupid. He’ll work it out eventually, unless you can figure something out...”

Peter slides down the stall wall to sit on the floor. He presses a hand against his eyes, letting out a little humorless laugh. “God, I’m so stupid...I thought that if I was really careful, if I tried really hard, I could have like—a _normal_ college experience, just be like everyone else...It’s just...it’s like you said—it gets so lonely, and I got selfish…That was so, so stupid…”

He drops his hand and looks across at Gwen through a veil of unshed tears. “Please don’t tell anyone. If the wrong people find out you know...it’s dangerous, do you understand? I don’t want anyone to get hurt because of me.”

“I understand,” she says solemnly. “And I won’t tell. I haven’t. I promise.”

**

Peter skips the rest of his classes for the day. He goes back to his dorm room and buries himself in his bed, clinging to a desperate hope that maybe if he could just get a few hours of sleep in, he could somehow wake up and the solution to all his problems would be right there waiting for him, that he could pull this all back together and—

His phone lights up with a video call where it sits on his desk, vibrating noisily against the hard surface. He fumbles to answer it without bothering to see who’s calling, assuming that it’s May or Tony.

MJ appears on the screen instead.

“‘Sup, nerd,” she says.

“MJ. Hey,” Peter says, feeling like the wind has been knocked out of him. “Hey. What are you—how are you?”

She makes a non-committal face. “I’m good. Surviving. Just thought I’d call to see if you’re as stressed out about finals as I am. It’s easier for me to tell if you’re being truthful when I can see your face.”

“Yeah, you could say that I’m stressed,” Peter says, smiling tightly. “I think that’s fair.”

“Cool. Nice to know I’m not suffering alone,” MJ says. “When’s your last exam?”

“The nineteenth.”

“Awesome. Mine’s the sixteenth.” MJ pauses a moment, then adds, “We should hang out over break. Catch up. If you want to.”

“Yeah,” Peter says immediately. “Yeah, for sure. We can definitely do that. I’d love to do that.”

“Cool,” MJ says again, smiling now. “How is it up there? Are you enjoying being surrounded by fellow overachieving tech nerds?”

“Yeah, it’s good,” Peter says automatically, before stopping himself. “Actually, it’s not. I’m really—not doing okay. I’ve made a ton of really dumb mistakes, and…I keep thinking I’m doing the right thing, but then it never feels right, and I think maybe—I’m not supposed to be here or something. Like maybe it’s too much for me to handle, and I should…”

He trails off again, swallowing hard.

“I just really, really miss you,” he says finally.

MJ’s face softens. 

“I didn’t go anywhere,” she tells him. “I’m right here. I’m always right here.”

**

He does eventually get to sleep, only to wake up at around one in the morning positive that he’s dying.

He scrabbles for his phone as he struggles for breaths that refuse to come, panicking as he calls his aunt.

“May, I’m dying,” he pants into the phone as soon as she answers. 

“Okay, honey,” May replies calmly, used to these late night calls by now. “Can you give me a little more info? You know, with you it’s hard to tell if this is just stressed-out student hyperbole or if you’re actually bleeding in an alley somewhere. Where are you?”

“I’m—I’m in my dorm room.”

“That’s good. Are you hurt?”

“No, no—I’m not. Just—can you come? Please come get me,” Peter says. “I need you to come get me, May.”

“Peter, baby, do you remember midterms? You got yourself all worked up then, too, and everything was fine. Your final exams are going to be fine, too.”

“No, no—this isn’t about finals. I really need you to come get me—I mean it this time,” Peter begs. “Please, May.”

There’s a pause on her end of the call.

“Okay, honey,” she says finally, more serious now. “I’m coming. Stay in your room until I get there, alright? I’m coming, but it’s a long drive. You’re gonna have to wait for me, okay?”

Peter does what she asks, curling up in bed and waiting. His chest still feels scarily tight but he’s feeling a little calmer now, knowing that help is on the way. 

He thinks he must fall asleep again or something, because his phone buzzes on his pillow and it feels way too soon for it to be May. He picks it up and looks at the screen, and sees a text from Tony.

_Come downstairs and say hi,_ it reads.

Peter presses a hand to his eyes, releasing a slow breath. Then he gets up, gets dressed, and heads downstairs. 

Tony is waiting for him at the curb out front, leaning against a surprisingly low-key rented town car with his hands set casually in his pockets, like he’s just waiting to take Peter out for lunch or something.

Tony jerks his head towards the car. “Let’s go for a ride. Hop in. Quick—I’ve already made two mouth-breathing nerds pee their pants just by standing here. America’s future. You guys gotta get out more.”

Peter climbs into the passenger seat. He sits quietly for a moment, feeling a mix of shame and relief now, then says, almost apologetically, “You got here really fast.”

“The perks of having a private jet,” Tony replies simply, his eyes on the road.

Tony drives through a city gone muddy under yellow lamplights, one hand on the wheel and the other clasped loosely around the back of Peter’s neck.

“Let’s chat. I can’t handle extended silences. Makes me itchy,” Tony says. “Come on. Talk to me. You got something on your mind?”

“Um. Yeah, actually,” Peter replies. “I have this friend here...she’s super smart, and hard-working, and just—nice. Usually. And she could really use some help—financial aid, for tuition and stuff. So if there’s uh, like, some kind of scholarship that one of your foundations offers to, I dunno—women going into STEM fields or something, she would really deserve it.”

“I think we probably have something she would qualify for. Send me her information, and I’ll look into it.”

“She’s got some big student loans she’s already taken out that she’s gonna have to pay back,” Peter adds.

“Not anymore, she doesn’t,” Tony says, waving a hand in the air. “Poof—I’ve waved my magic wand.”

“A summer internship would look really good on her resume, too.”

“I’ll have Pepper arrange something with the tech department. Anything else?”

“Yeah, one more thing,” Peter says, his chest tight again. “Will you never speak to me again if I drop out of MIT?”

Tony is silent for a long, long moment.

“Never? Never is very long time,” he finally says. “Might be a little dramatic, even for me. Six months sounds more reasonable—a year, if I’m feeling particularly petty.”

Peter can’t bring himself to laugh. “Seriously.”

Tony pulls the car over and parks it in the emergency lane, leaving the engine to idle.

“Okay. Okay, let’s be serious,” Tony says, turning to face Peter. “Why do you want to drop out? Did something happen?”

“No. I mean, yes—things have happened,” Peter replies. “I…really screwed up bad, and some people figured out that I’m Spider-Man, and I don’t know how to fix it except to leave. I’m worried other people will get involved, and someone could get hurt.”

“Alright. So—we’ve talked about this being something that could happen. It’s not the end of the world,” Tony says. “I’ve got some of the best lawyers and best PR people on the planet. We’ll take care of it. It’s going to be a little rough, sure, but you don’t need to drop out of school because of that. We always fix our mistakes, right?”

Peter shakes his head. “It’s not just that. It’s—a hundred other things, it’s…”

He stops. He’s suddenly, embarrassingly close to tears.

“I’m really scared I’m gonna disappoint you,” he confesses in a small voice. “You know, after...after everything that happened. After what you did...”

“Disappoint me?” Tony repeats, eyebrows raised. “Kid, you make me so proud. Every day, you make me so damn proud.”

“I know, I know, but—it could have gone so bad,” Peter says, swiping at tears that he can’t hold back any longer. “It could have gone so, so bad, and I can’t stop thinking about it. If you’d—Morgan would have had to grow up without...without...I know what that’s like. It doesn’t _ever_ stop hurting. And I walk around campus, around the city, and I see all these murals and statues, and it’s this—this _constant_ reminder, about what I have to live up to. About—how I need to make sure it was worth it. And it’s—_so much,_ and I’m so tired, and I keep screwing things up. I feel like I’m never, ever gonna be good enough.”

“But it didn’t go bad,” Tony says. “It’s messy, really fucking messy, but trust me—_trust me_—it’s so much better now, kid. It really is. It was worth it. _You_ are worth it. I told you I had a lot of doubts, but I never, _never_ doubted that, do you hear me?”

Peter nods, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes, futilely trying to stem the flow of tears.

“You’re grieving right now, I know you are—you lost all this time and things feel different now, and when you came back you were so busy trying to get on with life and figuring out your future that you never got the chance to properly grieve for it,” Tony says, squeezing Peter’s arm. “It’s okay to grieve for that. God knows I have—I did every single day for five straight years. But you’re grieving for something that didn’t even _happen,_ too, and you can’t do that to yourself. Please don’t do that to yourself.

“And here’s the other thing,” Tony continues. “You were _not_ put here on this Earth to impress me, or to live up to some _absurd_ standards manufactured by outside forces. _I_ can’t even live up to them—but you already know that. Have I shown you my latest work of art?” he asks as he pulls his phone out of his pocket and shows it to Peter. The lock screen is a gif of Iron Man twerking in glittery hot pants and roller-skates. 

Peter manages a smile at that, and Tony nods knowingly.

“Yeah. Good to see people are starting to wake up to the truth of this whole farce. You know the facade is really crumbling when the youths start meme-ing it to death,” Tony says, putting the phone away. “Few more weeks of this, and maybe people will stop putting me on a pedestal and finally let me retire to be the embarrassing, corny, middle-aged dad I really am. God, I look forward to the day when no one takes me seriously anymore. It’s right around the corner—I can taste the freedom.”

He’s quiet a moment, like he’s basking in the thought, and then he reaches out and curls a hand around the back of Peter’s neck again, squeezing gently. “So. You know what I expect from you? I expect you to enjoy college. Learn new things. Make some new friends. Go to parties and get a little too drunk—within reason, of course. Convince the good people of Boston to call you something cooler than Night Monkey, please.”

Peter huffs out a little laugh. “I think it’s too late for that. It’s been in the local news now. I’m stuck with Night Monkey.”

“Well, it’s not any worse than Spider-Man, really.”

“_Hey._”

“The point is,” Tony continues over Peter’s objection. “All you need to do to live up to whatever made-up gold standard you’ve planted in your mind is be the capable, smart, _good_ kid you already are. And if people find out that that’s who’s really behind the mask, then they’re gonna know that they’re in good hands. Okay?”

“Okay,” Peter agrees, taking a deep breath, calmer now. 

“Okay. So let’s make a deal,” Tony offers. “Finish out this semester, and then at least try to get through spring, too. If you hate it, if it’s too much, you come home. Take a break. Travel. Whatever you want. I’ll still talk to you, I promise. I won’t be disappointed. I want you to be happy—the only thing that’s gonna disappoint me is finding out that you’re not happy, in which case the only person I’ll be disappointed with is myself, ‘cause that means I haven’t been doing my job right. Which brings me to the next part of the deal—there’s free student counseling offered here. I want you to take advantage of that—or, I can make some arrangements for you, if you prefer. Okay?”

Peter nods. “Yeah.”

“One last point,” Tony says. “Take a break from the Night Monkey gig. Just be Peter Parker, college freshman, for a while. Sometimes you gotta walk before you run. Try doing one thing at a time for a bit. Alright?”

Peter looks at him, frowning. “For how long?”

“Give yourself at least a month. I know that’s gonna be tough for a righteous civic-minded little shit like you, but you look dead on your feet, kid. Show a little mercy for yourself.”

“I’ll try it,” Peter reluctantly agrees.

“Thank you. That’s all I ask, that you try,” Tony says. He sticks out his hand to Peter. “So—do we have a deal, then?”

“Yeah,” Peter agrees, taking Tony’s hand in his and shaking it.

“Good,” Tony says, smiling. “Now, let me take you out to a very early breakfast. There’s a twenty-four-hour donut place here that I used to frequent in my MIT days that FRIDAY tells me is still in business. How does an authentic Boston cream sound?”

“Sounds really good,” Peter says.

**

Right before finals, Dr. Connors stops showing up for class without any explanation. Two days later, someone sees policemen leaving the building that houses his lab and office. Wild rumors spread around campus about kidnappings, murder, a body found in the Charles River, absolutely none of it substantiated in any way.

Peter sidesteps the promise he made to take a break from his crime-fighting gig and has Karen pull up everything she can from the police databases. What he finds only adds to the mystery—a missing persons report filed by Dr. Connors’ wife, as well as a collection of forensic photos of his office, which looks like it’s been completely ransacked, the heavy desk overturned and the walls gouged with claw-like marks. When Peter tries to have Karen check the lab’s security footage, she discovers that the cameras stopped recording the night before Dr. Connors’ wife went to the police.

Peter has Karen send an anonymous tip to the police describing the scene he had witnessed the night he’d been interrupted by Dr. Connors in the lab, and then he forces himself to set the mystery aside for now, until finals are over.

He gets several more nosebleeds during finals but doesn’t have any more late night panicky calls to May, which feels like a small victory. He aces all of his exams again, which is enough to drag his GPA back up out of the hole he’d dug it into with all his absenteeism and missed assignments. His recovered GPA is still only middling at best, and it’s hard not to feel bothered by it.

“Still better than my GPA when I was at MIT,” Tony tells him while Peter and May are visiting at the lake house for Christmas.

“Really?” Peter asks, dubious.

They’re tinkering in the garage again, arm-deep in the latest iteration of War Machine armor. Tony’s greying hair is hidden under the ugliest Christmas-themed knit beanie Peter has ever seen.

“Oh, yeah. My grades were always in the tank,” Tony says, blowing a wet raspberry while making a thumbs down gesture. 

“But _how?_ I mean, it’s…_you._”

“Yeah, it was me. And me in my late-teens was a lazy, arrogant little punk who couldn’t be bothered to go to class or show up to exams,” Tony says. “I didn’t have some noble excuse like you do. Point being—it’s just a number. Don’t worry about it. You’re coming to work for me at SI after you graduate, anyway.”

“I dunno,” Peter says. “Harry’s dad has been trying to get me to do an internship at Oscorp. Could lead to a job.”

Tony throws down the screwdriver he’s holding, looking disgusted. “If I had known that you were going to go to MIT and start an amorous relationship with the spawn of one of my biggest business competitors, I would have sent you to CalTech. Christ almighty. It’s like the universe is mocking me for thinking I could get the one up on it.”

“I’m only kidding,” Peter assures him. “I have a lot of brand loyalty to Stark Industries.”

“I certainly hope so after all the free products I’ve given you over the years,” Tony says, picking the screwdriver back up and prying open a panel on the armor. 

Peter watches him work for a bit, then asks, “Do you have time to make another suit with me before I leave? I’ve had some ideas.”

“Absolutely,” Tony says, setting the screwdriver aside again. “I’ve got all the time in the world for you, kid. Let’s do it.”

**

Back in the city for the new year, Peter takes the train into Manhattan.

He gets off at 77th Street and walks a few blocks, hands jammed into his coat pockets, wishing he’d remembered to grab a scarf on his way out.

MJ’s already waiting for him in front of the Met, bouncing on her toes as she tries to keep warm. She spots him coming and smiles.

“Hey, loser,” she greets. “You’re late, as usual.”

“I know,” Peter says with a wince, coming to a stop in front of her. “Sorry.”

“But you’re actually here this time, so I forgive you,” MJ says, smiling wider to show that she really means it. She looks him over. “You look nice. Healthy.”

“Thanks. So do you. You look nice, I mean,” Peter clarifies. “And healthy, too, sure. That’s also important. More important, really.”

MJ’s smile turns amused. “Thanks. You are as painfully awkward as I remember. I mean that as a compliment. Don’t ever change, okay?”

“I’ll do my best,” Peter says, returning her smile. He takes a hand out of his pocket and gestures towards the museum. “Should we go inside before freeze to death, or…”

“We should,” MJ says, walking beside him towards the doors.

**

The spring semester begins much more sedately than Peter’s fall semester had. He returns to campus with a hamper full of clean clothes and his new therapist’s number saved to his phone contacts and zero bullet holes in his body.

Dr. Connors’ disappearance remains unsolved, although Peter spent part of the holidays investigating it. He’s had Karen dig into the university’s servers and found all kinds of heavily encrypted files created by Dr. Connors that Karen can’t even crack. Peter downloads them to a flash drive and makes a stop at Ned’s dorm the first day back.

“Hey, I know you’re gonna be super busy with classes here in a minute, but I could really use my guy in the chair again, if you’re up for it,” Peter tells him, dangling the flash drive in front of him.

“Hell, yeah,” Ned says eagerly, his whole face lighting up. He lowers his voice. “Is this for Night Monkey stuff?”

Peter makes a face. “Night Monkey? Aw, Ned, not you, too.”

“What? That’s what they call you on the news.”

Peter waves a hand impatiently. “Never mind. It’s not for Night Monkey. But it is probably—definitely—_extremely_ dangerous and criminal. I can’t trust anyone else with this.”

“Fuckin’ awesome, I’m all over it, bro,” Ned says, grinning as he takes the flash drive and shakes Peter’s hand.

**

“Please join robotics club with me this semester,” Gwen says to him later that day while they sit on the steps in front of the Great Dome, enjoying the unseasonably warm weather. “Last semester it was like me and two other girls surrounded by a bunch of guys. The gender ratio is a crime.”

“I’m a guy, though,” Peter says. “How does my joining help improve the gender ratio?”

“It doesn’t, but you at least pay attention to personal hygiene and you know how to talk to girls like we’re fully realized members of the same species.”

“I’ll see if I can squeeze it in,” Peter promises, right as Harry comes jogging up to them, still looking tanned and artfully windswept from spending his break sunbathing on a variety of beaches in Greece.

“‘Sup, babes,” he says, pushing his sunglasses up. “Back on the pain train. You guys ready to suffer?”

“Yeah, really looking forward to it,” Peter says dryly.

“Oh, yeah, that’s the spirit,” Harry says, digging something wrapped in paper towel out of his backpack. He hands it to Peter. “Here, I made you something.”

Peter unwraps the towel, uncovering what looks vaguely to be a charcoal briquette.

“What is _that?_” Gwen asks, appalled.

Harry scoffs at her. “It’s a grilled cheese sandwich for my boy Pete, Stacy, are you fucking blind? It’s an offering of love and devotion. I’ve been pining for him for three straight weeks.”

Gwen raises her eyebrows dubiously. “It looks like a broiled dog turd. You’re not actually expecting him to eat that, are you? It might kill him.”

“Listen, I made that on a Bunsen burner in my organic chemistry lab this morning,” Harry says. “I’ve never cooked a day in my life. What do you want from me?”

“It’s okay,” Peter says, smiling. “It’s the thought that counts. And honestly? This is better than Mr. Stark’s first attempt. I’m impressed.”

Harry presses a hand to his chest, blinking hard. “Better than Tony Stark’s? I did something better than Tony Stark? I’m not even kidding—this is the proudest moment of my life. I legit might cry.” 

“You are so sad,” Gwen says.

“Way to ruin the moment, Gwennie,” Harry replies, slinging his backpack over his shoulder and giving them a lazy salute. “Alright, dummies—I’m late for class. See you later.”

They watch him walk away, and then Gwen turns towards Peter. “As your friend, I feel obligated to tell you that you can do _so_ much better, Peter.”

“I dunno. He’s sweet. You know, in his own way,” Peter says, smiling a little helplessly. “It’s okay. I’m used to dealing with weird rich people.”

“I guess,” Gwen sighs, shaking her head. She clears her throat and looks down, twisting her hands together in her lap.

“I, um. I got an email from the September Foundation over break,” she says. “I’ve been awarded something called the ‘Be Cool, Stay in School Scholarship,’ which I thought was some kind of prank until I checked with the Bursar’s Office and they told me everything—my tuition, housing, fees, _everything_—has been paid off in full.”

“Oh, man, that’s awesome,” Peter says, grinning. 

“Yeah, it is,” Gwen agrees. “But I never applied for any grants or scholarships from the September Foundation, so…”

She leans forward and wraps her arms around Peter’s neck, hugging him tight for a brief moment before releasing him. “Thank you. Really.”

Peter shrugs. “Hey, just trying to use my powers for good. I’m your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, after all.”

Gwen squints at him. “I thought you’re Night Monkey here in Boston.”

“I dunno,” Peter says. “I’m strongly considering a rebranding. You know, go back to my roots. Be my most authentic self.”

Gwen smiles. “I think that sounds like a really great idea.”

**

Two weeks into the semester, Peter takes to the streets of Boston again, this time wearing the new suit he and Tony made over the holidays.

The new suit’s red and black—a little homage to Night Monkey—but there’s no mistaking the familiarity of its design.

As he swings through the city, people stop and point, scrambling for their phones to take pictures and video. A kid in a Red Sox ball cap waiting at a crosswalk takes his hat off to wave it at Peter as he zips by, trying to get his attention.

“Hey, Spider-Man!” the kid shouts, frantically waving his hat. “Spider-Man! Spider-Man!”

Peter stops on top of the traffic light over the crosswalk, returning the kid’s wave, before launching himself back into the air while the kid gives a delighted whoop, thrilled to pieces.

**

_I thought we agreed to a month-long moratorium on the masked vigilantism,_ Tony texts him later that evening.

_we agreed no night monkey,_ Peter texts back. _im just exploiting a loophole in our deal_

_Proud of you, kid,_ Tony replies.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> I'm blaming any discrepancies with MIT's academic calendar/curriculum on the Blip and not on my lazy research skills.
> 
> You can also find me on [tumblr](https://groo-ock.tumblr.com/)


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